I hang my hope
on the highest branches,
out of reach, where
it dangles and sways in the breeze,
and offers periodic respite to a passing bird
needing perch.
Would it do me more good
at ground-level,
in-hand, manipulated, turned
every which way?
And more easily bruised,
dropped, shaken to assess
hollowness or solidity.
Best left to ripen,
cossetted by leaves and the turning of the day,
intact. At some minor distance,
concerning the discernment of
any inherent fragility,
there is safety in the attenuation
of touch.
caroline ridgway 