Why do I hope?
The question implies a need,
or direction.
But isn’t hope aimless?
In a way, is it not a gamble?
Play your cards—
risk all.
Cede the outcome to some force beyond.

No, that can’t be right.
What agency does that provide?
A shoulder shrug—
what will be, will be?
I don’t think so.
My hope is an act.

It is rooted
in what I want to become.
It is the canvas yet to be filled
with color.
I have a paintbrush;
I have a palette of colors,
and I make the first stroke.
What am I painting?

Why, I am painting the whole world.
I am painting my neighbor,
I am painting my friends,
but I am also painting the stranger.
Because they are here, too.
I hear them across the gulf,
and I give their voice a color.

Could I do better?
What if, instead,
I get more brushes,
more palettes,
a bigger canvas?
And I say “join me?”
And together, we fill this space.
Yes, that feels right.
Because no one of us defines
that for which we hope;
we share it into existence.

So, on this canvas,
we paint something
that no eyes have ever seen.
A vision of what could be,
and might still,
should we be so strong
to hope together.

And maybe after,
we all step back and marvel
at what we’ve created—
something only coherent
and comprehensive
when we consider it together,
because alone, it can’t be understood.
Its meaning is drawn
from a thousand eyes
and a thousand hearts,
taking stock all at once.
This is our hope—
only real because it is shared.