Poem January 30, 2012 Issue

Sea change

Madora Kibbe

Yes, it was on the beach that night
when the rising moon looked like distant fireworks
and the sand stretched out forever
into the calm, strong sea, that we first found
the spiritual guidepost called “anchor of hope.” *

It was tied to a house on the shore
kept afloat by a small but seaworthy crew of two
—make that three (some dogs are more than just pets)—
and these three, weathered and seasoned by outfacing storms,
unfazed by either dazzling sun or starless night,
were kept on course by a moral compass,
not the kind you pick up and throw away
but one handed down and on and over again
like a family heirloom, only much more valuable,
much more practical, both inherited and earned.

And to think that hope isn’t the sail, billowing
on every shift of wind, or even the wheel, man’s invention.
Hope is the anchor that keeps everyone grounded and safe.
And we thought, of course that’s what’s holding us, all of us,
the God of hope, not in or even from the tempest, but instead of it.