My hope is a Lodgepole pine. Or maybe a Ponderosa. Definitely pine. Sometimes smelling of butterscotch, usually vanilla. Tall, straight, stretching, a fire-resistant skin, alligator bark. It tastes of rough green and sounds like love. Greta Thurnberg on the Atlantic Ocean is hope. My hope is a sailboat on vast seas. Walking the waves, fist high, tasting of spring. A self-licking ice cream cone, my hope Believes in global change, so hang on, here it comes. “I have the best words.” The best words of air. Chilly puffs of concrete layers. My hope leaps off the high dive just to feel the rush. Max’s hope wallows in metaphors, saving her every day. Hope will lead to love will lead to change will lead to safety. Determined, hungry, un-obedient hope, Linked arm-in-arm with love, the answer to life. Comme on fait son lit, on se couche. My dog told me that the crow carries hope on her wings in The murmuring whispers of feathers landing on pines.