Hope

Morning.  Breathing
fresh(ish) city air
into which not too many cars
and bakkies
have yet exhaled;

warm white mini-clouds from my mouth
making reverse trails
for me to follow;
running forward
to meet them,

breathing them in
again and thinking
Hope!
Thin and hardly there,
like invisible​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ pollution:

hanging around as long
as there's no wind
and then coming back again soon
after
being blown away.

You can only see it
from a distance,
but, if you breathe really
deep and hard, like you must
when you're running,​​​​​​​​​

you feel that it must be
there 'cause it burns
in your throat as if you've been
screaming
and makes the air taste different:

Sweeter
than it should.  It's there in the air
and it's not getting blown away as completely
as I thought.  It's there and I'm
breathing it in every day.​​​​​
​​​​

Written in the New South Africa in 2001. Reading it to myself again this year.