Hope doesn’t spring
Eternally or otherwise
Its fingertip clings
In that moment of withdrawal
To what it cannot understand
That it may return
Newly knowable
In fate’s trembling hand.
And love doesn’t soar
Like an eagle on a sunbeam.
In that melancholic haze
Shrouding the moment of loss
In the midst of the tremble
It grasps that shadowed palm
Whatever it returns,
Stumbling, without feathers.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
.