Hope is the thing that sings, flies overhead, reaches new heights
As she flies, quietly, beneath her, far below the air under her wings, something stark grows, richly running through thick loam, down,
down to the dark where dead things are.
She tunnels through their molding past, feeds off a stench of crumbling death.
Living: putting out into the world an obvious canopy, a bumper crop of fledglings, flowers, seeds.
Living: sinking deep into the earth, to the depths, where the dark, dark night meets day.
Hope is the thing that holds up oaks, that anchors living weight into the crust. Growing is not outward, but within.