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| Ray Bilcliff |
Hope
is a still whisper.
Only if you lean in,
hush the world’s noise,
can you hear her voice
in the scratch of squirrels
playing up and down
redwood’s trunk.
Lying in bed awaiting
sleep you might hear her
in the owl’s brief call.
She floats like dust motes
in the corner of a room,
as the quick blaze of sunlight
between storm clouds,
nasturtium growing
through impossible fence boards.
You’ll sense her in
the hint of jasmine
before you cross a busy street,
essence of a neighbor’s rose,
tang of an orange peel.
Taste her in spring’s strawberry,
honeyed juice of a peach,
that first sip of coffee.
She’s the down of a cat.
dew of morning grass,
solace of a foot reaching
across to warm your own
in the night.
© LeeAnn Pickrell
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| LeeAnn Pickrell |
LeeAnn Pickrell’s debut collection is Gathering the Pieces of Days from Unsolicited Press. Her chapbook Punctuated was published in 2024 by Bottlecap Press, and her book Tsunami is forthcoming in 2026, also from Unsolicited Press. She lives in Richmond, California. See more at www.leeannpickrell.com.
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