Hope by Sheryl Wentworth Woods
Every blade of grass
Has its angel that bends
Over it and whispers
“Grow, grow.”
The Talmud
Hope is what gets me out of bed each morning.
Like liquid faith, it fills the black emptiness.
Unrelenting and steadfast,
it pushes one foot in front of the other,
whispering in my ear,
Dare to live. Dare to dream.
Hope is a child’s wish upon a star.
It is the light in a moonless sky,
the fragile filament that connects body to soul.
It is as strong as rock, as persistent as the wind
and delicate as a spider’s web.
Hope thrives in each feathered wing
of a bird taking flight.
It urges each sprouting seed
to push through the ground
and burst open to the sun.
Hope is believing there is a better place than this.
It is what keeps me alive.
Will you hope for me when I cannot?
Photo by Ashley St. John on Unsplash
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