Hope, so they say,
Is a thing with feathers
Which springs eternal:
The sustenance of faith.

For me, what is left:
Defaulting to hope
As a seasonal activity
Intermingled with rainy clouds
And bursts of sunshine,
Here again, back again.

Tattered and frayed,
This year finds me
A little worse for wear.
Yet still I cling
To tendrils of hope:
Searching for beauty
In unexpected places;
Taking wobbling steps
With strong certainty;
Weathering the days given me
With quiet joy
And sure expectation.