hope

 He wrote, 

and light  

settled around him

like the halo

of a saint,

deep in the night,

at his bare work desk,

where he sowed words 

to grow

hope;

the hope of the farmers, 

giving their hearts, 

souls, 

minds, 

bodies 

to the land 

day after day, 

year after year, 

until they became 

the dust 

from which 

they were made; 

the hope of the workers, 

giving their hearts, 

souls, 

minds, 

bodies 

to the factories, 

day after day, 

year after year, 

until they became 

the gears and grease 

from which

they worked;

the hope of the servants, 

giving their hearts, 

souls, 

minds,  

bodies 

to their patróns,

day after day, 

year after year, 

until they became 

the rags and the basins 

from which 

they served;

all hoping, 

the farmers, 

the workers, 

the servants, 

for subsistence, 

food for

3 meals a day;

for shelter, 

wood and tin 

to build a house;

for nothing,

and yet,

for everything.

Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2020