Tonight, seeds that will be planted in our garden are spread across the coffee table. Cilantro, bell peppers, summer squash, basil, carrots are just the ones I can see.

It’s planning season: time to consider our land and dream for the future, even though it feels like just yesterday we were collecting our community garden bounty as the sun set over Memorial Drive.

And even though there’s snow on the ground, spring feels imminent. Sunset is nearing 7 p.m., temperatures are finding themselves sitting in the 50s more often, and it’s hard not to dream of swimming in Lake Michigan.

I’m giving into the hope of spring. I’m imagining this city in a new season, one I’ve seen but one I’m ready to welcome again, in it’s own way. Perhaps I’m being naiive, but it feels good, deeply lifting, to imagine goodness right now (something we could all use more of).

So this week, we’re writing a poem of hope.

Imagine your ideal day in Racine, whether that ideal is something you’ve experienced before and would like to have again, or a version of the city you’re still waiting to see. Write a poem painting the picture of that day: Who is there? What are you doing? How does the day move? How does it feel? Where are you? And why? Maybe it’s just a slice of that ideal day, a window into the soul of the city you believe is there. A poem of hope, also a love poem of sorts.

Here’s where my hopeful mind is carrying me tonight:

Michigan Avenue sidewalk

Chai latte with a side of small talk. Regulars reading the paper, even in 2034. My mom tells me their back stories, I imagine my own. There is no such thing as here or there. There is only now. There is only the sidewalk carrying the man who once called this city home. The dog that walks this street every day. Are they not the same? Moving through time, going nowhere other than this perfect day? Do you believe it? I mean, the way you believe the waves will continue to crash even when you’re not looking, even when you’re counting your steps along Michigan Avenue, counting the houses, counting the clouds, counting the breaths taken under blue skies, counting the calls of birds echoing overhead. This day is made of sun and memory, with a hint of hope. Pints shared on lakefront tables. Pizza seasoned with sand passed across blanket. And family, always family. That’s what makes a place: memory. I mean, the feeling of it, the thing that will carry you home.

As always, please share your poems. Send them my way at sklblauren@gmail.com.

My dream of this residency is to catalogue even a handful of poems generated with Racine in mind, written by you all, to create a small anthology to mark this moment. Consider this your call to consider and contribute!

Wishing everyone a great Monday.

My best,
L.A. Sklba