Hope comes from high noon
And at night
From the sunlight skipping off the moon
Hope slips through the concrete
Like a weed
Just being
A weed
Hope grows on trees
Some falling as seeds
Most dropping as fertilizer
Only ready after a winter’s rest
Hope abides
As signaled by a singular bird
Returned from far off lands
This poem emanates from and for election day 2016, and sow far beyond. 
Hope has an effervescence and patience that may seem poorly suited to our hurried and harried modern lifestyles. We are captivated more by high noon than moonlight. We are prone to pound the pavement with our souls rather than to grow life through, out that which inevitably cracks. We are disposed to think that life is just won big oak rather than little nuts holding their ground. And while hope springs eternal, its foremost sign is commonly a singular bird bringing tidings from a strange and largely mysterious place, that know one, quiet understands.
