Hope is a wren in winter, nesting amongst black branches adorned with thorns.

Flying past the last star hanging crooked in the night sky, a broken silver  bell. Singing a song to slide into the pocket of worn jeans.

  Hope is a deep breath for a worry-worn tummy. Flickering in the darkest of places, a glow held in fragile palms. A hand to hold.

An unexpected smile, or a flock of blackbirds swishing through steel-wool skies.

Traveling  on hot-air balloons, trains, cars, sailboats. Those needy enough to notice it stoop to pick it up, faces illuminated. 

Sea green tears tracing a path for a cause. It is the  smell of burnt sugar, wrapped and tied up with blue yarn. It  can be found on the freckled pages of an old book, or a single whispered word.

Hiding  behind sadness, the brown eyes of a toddler, peeking out from behind the trunk of an oak tree. One lone daisy, whisked away by  rapids beneath a bridge. Liberating, like stretching weak arms in summer rain. Sunlight dancing on the crest of the ocean.