The Isle of Hope: A Poem
Isle of Hope Residents Jan Hoover Johnson (left) and her daughter, Abby Johnson (right)
The Isle of Hope — born from a little creek.
If you're not paying attention, you might miss it:
that winding ribbon of water dividing the city
from a small island, quiet and pretty.
It’s wonderful — some people would live nowhere else,
where peace sits gently, and beauty is felt.
Generations of families have lived for years,
a place where time softens
and the city’s fears disappear.
I imagine living there with friendly neighbors,
voices drifting across porches,
the scent of supper in the air.
People walking to the mailbox,
pausing for conversation,
filling the afternoon with stories and laughter.
Children pedal bicycles through the streets,
and life moves at the speed of kindness.
But Isle of Hope is so much more than that.
It’s the view from my kitchen window —
the greenest grass,
then marshland, gold as a meadow,
and beyond it, the river, flowing forever
around the bend, where it looks like it never ends.
Ancient oaks frame the land,
their roots hugging the roadsides.
Docks stretch like open arms,
boats and kayaks rocking in the tide
like memories that never end.
People stroll and jog,
or sit on their docks talking, with pride
the breeze rising and falling
with every tide.
It always feels like a perfect day for a ride.
When the flowers bloom —
light pink, deep pink, purple, and blue,
yellow and orange, and white with a morning swoon —
the island becomes an artist’s palette,
a masterpiece of seasons and sun.
Every color flower line the bluff,
and the palms sway like giant towers.
Home waits just beyond the doorway,
the air fresh and waiting to play.
If you are lucky enough to live on The Isle of Hope,
you’ll know — there’s nowhere else like it.
And once it has your heart,
you’ll never want to live anywhere else, nope!