Blue sky perfect,
whispers of clouds,
fall hinting at its arrival
under a setting quarter moon,

no sign of the predicted coming storm
allegedly headed our way this afternoon.

Some days are like this.
Call it deception or miracle.

Walking the neighborhood I call mine
in this still-capable body,
on my way to brunch with a friend,

I stop, look up at the sky, the trees,
the comma of moon, into
the deep hope that is.

•••

With thanks to Lucie Chalifour for the conversation
that gave me the poem’s last line. And to Savannah
and Ruby for a delightful brunch!