Breathing

You know the story of Pandora's Box, right?
All the sins and ills of the world, and
it was hope
that flew out last?

It is a terrible thing. 

Hope. 

I used to find comfort, in that story.

Holding on to a single golden truth:
The idea that something could be hopeful
meant it could look up.  Get
better.  Improve.
This place was
as bad as it could get.

But I didn't know how hope could be used to tease you,
push you right into a limbo of doubt where you hang and cannot let go
--just this one more test, we'll try, just to see
maybe, maybe, maybe.
she'll turn around.  Maybe
this will be the one.

I've been kidding myself that I was
a goddess of plenty,
of summer sun and bees dusted a frenzied yellow.

When in truth, I know so much
better-- this--
chill of the bones
this, pinching of the mouth
this,
loss.  Not yellow plenty but bitter brown.   
Bare branches and curled leaves. 
A swirling wind that leaves you
breathless and
tired, birdbaths overturned,
summer far away.

The last thing that flew out of that box
was as much a curse as a blessing.

As are all gifts that come in secret boxes.

KAW  Feb '10