Steven Hughes 

life

Hope, hot as the noonday sun

steeps in my chest

and draws from the depths of it.

Life unaltered, unearned.

Poised as magnolias fill their branches.

As blossoms unveil with the consummation

of winter and spring.

As roses bloom

deep and wide.

As cottonwoods quake.

As death subsides.

Life.

Spanned across the wings of morning.

Long as canyons

ripped from the seams

of land and an old garment.

High as sycamores

or as the great cedars.

A balm for the decayed.

He walked

into the grove of death

that bright things will emerge.