In the bleakness of the winter day
When the sun’s rays seem pale and washed-thin,
When the heat of the noon seems a distant dream,
Hope arrives.
She seems to rush in, breathless, like a late attendee,
But she is right on time.
She comes in different costumes:
A long-awaited healing.
A longing fulfilled.
A rescue.
A love resurrected.
Sometimes, Hope seems whimsical
And inconsequential
In the face of darker forces,
In the company of Grief,
Anger, Betrayal, Fear.
But her gentleness
Her unexpectedness
Is her strength.
In time, she will push aside her gossamer skirts
And dig deeply into the hard earth
With her sword-turned-into-ploughshare:
Placing the soil-studded seeds
That will, in the warming months, use tender, delicate shoots
To crack winter’s curse.
The tiny pieces of promised life are Hope’s Daughters
Spring’s heralds.
But for now, we wait.
We wait with Hope.
Her shimmering seat at our table keeps at bay
The Darkness.
The finality of Death.
The piercing pieces of a Shattered Heart.
Hope cannot make them leave the room,
But her gentle, fierce presence, the fire of her force
Bars them from the seats they would take.
They cannot destroy us while she is here.
And we hold the sacred secret:
The decision is in our hands alone,
To open the door
And invite her in.
And never let her go.
