When I was growing up, the walls of my room were covered in posters (they were the rage then). On three sides of the room were all those pictures of Bruce Springsteen and Maradona and Tom Cruise and Nazia Hussain and what-not. And on the fourth side, next to the dressing table there was this one beautiful picture of waves crashing on some rocks somewhere as dawn broke. A seagull flew with the first light of the sun’s rays on its wings. (It was also the time when I first came across Richard Bach and “Illusions” and “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” became my mantra in life.) That poster had a caption: “Even in darkness, light dawns for those who believe.” My dad and I? We believed. Now that I think of it, I think that my optimism is probably inherited from my father. He was one of those people who never saw the glass half empty. He always found something positive and his favourite line was “it’s not the end of the world.” I wonder what he would say if he was here now, the world as we know it surely feels like it is ending. But I know he’d smile and say “it’s probably for the better!” And I cherish that thought with hope. I know, part of me dreads that once the pandemic will be over people will go back with a vengeance to the streets, the poor will be the worst off and aggression, unkindness and greed will take over. But somewhere inside me I hope that we will have learned our lesson, maybe we will realise that nothing turns on how much money you have or what car you drive, it does not matter where you vacation or how big your house is, calamities can strike at any place. Maybe people will treat nature, other human beings and other creatures with kindness, maybe people will finally see that we all need to work together on earth to survive this business of life. Hope is what we cling to when all else is lost.
When selecting a poem on hope, I ignored the obvious choices by Emily Dickinson and John Keats. I found this one by Joy Harjo, who was named US poet Laureate in June 2019. Perhaps, you too will find the everyday optimism I found in her words: 
“Perhaps the world ends here” 
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite”