Writes Rohan Chhetri, and he’s right.
If not winter in New Delhi,
It’s Christmas in southern Utah.
But how’d hope get embodied, then,
If no one body conjured it?
Hope’s a ghost that rose up between
Bodies through thought’s collective steam.
It’s out there, in our winter air—
If not yet in our infancy,
It will be, with all the other
Gifts of great worth and misery.
The body has no use for it.
The body evolved to persist.
Awareness is aware of this.
Hope is a norm, a requirement.
Hope is such difficult homework,
A tough assignment, due the end
Of the year, a debt, a promise
Yet to be fulfilled. Put it off
And only suffer more for it.
The trick is to start writing it
Early, ahead of the deadline,
Way ahead, before you can know
What your life will be like that day
It’s due. Write it all out and rest.
You’ll have some time just to be flesh;
Store your winter hope this Christmas.