On the wings of hope

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

How long has it been since I've truly hoped? I can't remember, it seems so long. I had hope this summer -- summer's warm rays seem to bring it out in abundance -- but winter seems to steal my hope away.

I feel hope again, even in the chillest land of winter. I want to keep it with me, like a fire burning bright in my hands that only I can see. It keeps me warm when everything else seems cold.

I hope for a beautiful life with a loving husband and caring children. But it seems my lot in life to wait, to wait and see, always expecting miracles but never realizing them. All too often despair has driven my hope away.

Though I cannot see how my life will turn out, I can hope for a better future. That peace, contentment, espoir, will keep me going when all else appears lost.

I will hope. I will remember my beautiful dreams and constantly seek them. It will happen, someday, but until then all I can do is hope.