Sometimes a paper boat goes down river
carried by small winds
because rivers love innocence,
pink clouds, and yellow mountains
because it is impossible, then, to speak
of debt and hunger,
because the trees along the riverbank understand
the tricks of life
and wish that nothing made of paper,
nothing vulnerable
will sink on this honey and milk-filled night.
It’s possible, from time to time,
to believe in the foghorn of goodness
in this life, it’s possible for boats to be hurt free
even if it’s just for one second
it’s possible for the wind to love life.
In a church far away, a poor parishioner
lights a candle
that illuminates the large mouth of hope.
Then the earth forgets it only has one arm,
one eye, one leg,
and all is good.
