Hope
eld within the quiet of a waiting heart,
H
pening like morning light across the dark.
O
atience wears a different face when hope is near—
P
ven in the silence, something grows unseen.
E
ow do we hold what we cannot yet touch,
H
nly the scent of rain before the storm?
O
erhaps hope is not a thing we find,
P
ndlessly it waits inside the act of choosing.
E
ope is the first thread after the unraveling,
H
ne small stitch where nothing else remains.
O
eace is not the absence of the storm,
P
very dawn arrives because the earth keeps turning.
E
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