Four years ago, I wrapped my battered hope
in sorrow and despair and carefully
placed it on a dark shelf behind my Will.

I went about my days, then, drearily;
I could not see the future for the gloom
and as time trundled on I near forgot
that hope had ever sung, or spread its wing
or looked ahead to something that was not
but might be someday. 

                                          Hope was just a word,
almost devoid of meaning, quite of joy,
and not a feeling to be blithely worn
or, gods forbid, a beacon to employ
in navigating to some future dream.

Today, I heard a flutter on the shelf,
found, and unwrapped, a newly-healing hope,
and drew it gently back into myself.