How many times in nearly forty years Have shoots of hope pushed through the weary ground And straightaway been crushed? So many times That there’s no glint of green left to be found. And so you wait—damn, what else can you do?— And vaguely watch while others rush along To healing waters that you just can’t reach Without the help of someone kind and strong, Until one day you’re seen and the full weight Of your long wait is measured in the hands Of one who’s counted, blade by blade, each dream That’s been cut down. You thought that barren land Was all that you had left, but in this rain (So gentle) and this sun, hope grows again.
You know, sometimes I love your commentary even more than the poem itself.