Perhaps everything a heart could wish for.
Perhaps colder than it’s ever been.
Perhaps answers to your deepest questions.
Perhaps pain that steals your breath away.
Perhaps laughter, long, and loud, and raucous.
Perhaps wellness rising with the day.
Perhaps wind that crashes through the forest.
Perhaps children born to you, or me.
Perhaps saved from burdens too long carried.
Perhaps strangers you have never seen.
Perhaps sorrow, dark, and deep and fearsome.
Perhaps absolution finally.
We alone anticipate tomorrow,
conjure possibilities and fears,
expectations, great or small entice us
lived experience sets what they will be.
Woven of our silken dreams and nightmares,
cast upon a future we can’t see
what most shapes the morning we awake to:
greatest expectations yet to be.
I usually try to avoid writing poetry with a metrical signature because I find it either boring or imagine it parodied in some CBC farce: not a pretty picture. Nevertheless, this one kept coming at me with that damning rhythm so I just let it happen and trust you’ll blame it and not me.