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.