Hope Springs

The voice reached back into a past
where we had birthed our hopes.

A late night call from a friend no more.
He wanted to talk.

We had nothing to say,
so we said it again and again.

Where did your hopes take you, he asked.
Not where they promised, I said.

Mine died slowly like a departing dirge.
His left him hoping on his children’s children.

We yearned to return to our fragmented memories
where life was endlessly earnest,

where friendships started to die,
and promises made to be broken.

It’s hard to keep new hopes alive,
when the old ones never arrived.

©Brian Cummings