I am the collector of thrown away hopes.
Lost and forgotten,
blown in the wind,
strewn in the street.
I pick them up, brush them off
and give them someone,
someone who believes in them.
What was someone’s trash, their tragedy,
is now my magic, my power.
Who did these hopes belong to?
What were the thoughts of these
indifferent hands as they
let them drift away,
abandoned into the unknown?
Maybe these someones didn’t feel
worthy or special enough,
their own hopes felt too good, too true,
Maybe they thought hope was for suckers, like me.
Maybe they have enough,
there’s nothing more they need.
Luck and faith has filled their plates,
their smiles, their eyes.
Maybe it’s their donation to an
Or maybe letting it go is
the only way to let hope come alive.
Like throwing a penny in a fountain
or blowing an eyelash or a candle
or picking petals from a daisy.
They let it go
and let the universe take care of the rest.
Maybe it never necessarily comes back to them.
It’s in my hands now.
But maybe that’s their intention,
maybe that’s just how it works.
They give away their hope in the hope
that someone will find it,
someone will catch it and make it count,
make it worthwhile.
They give it away to continue the circle,
the cycle that they believe in,
the cycle that they will always be
too small to see.
And then their hope finds a way
and it finds me.
I feel the warm magic embedded
in its history and future,
alive and breathing,
like the rest of us,
like the sum of us,
breathing in all it could be.