Hope. An anticipation. A state of being. A longing for. A thought. A wish that something occurs or a phase shifts or a person changes. Even if it seems utterly impossible. Especially if it seems utterly impossible.

Hope. A feeling in my stomach, my throat, my heart. On the cusp of.

Hope. Getting out of bed in the morning.

Hope. Walking, placing one foot in front of the other, to catch a body as she falls over and over again, left right left.

Hope. Voting.

Hope. The migration of all living things from one pole to the next, season after season. That when we show up, there will be food, warm shelter, and friends.

Hope. More time.

Hope. A lottery ticket.
Hope. A bottomless rootbeer float, juicy peaches always in season.

Hope. A clear scan. A flu shot. A COVID vaccine.

Hope. Waiting for the red traffic light to turn green. Walking in the cross walk.

Hope. For the rain to quench the parched land. For the flood waters to recede.

Hope. The thing with feathers, so that it can fly and float up to be caught by those granters who reside among the stars and the cirrus and altocumulus clouds, giving their sign of fairer weather yet to come.

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