Fernweh

It's a surprise, this God-With-Us. 

This is no place for the Holy. 

But.

There it is. There He is.

Unexpected, but inarguable. Sunlight filtering through shade, dancing in the shadows below. 

With apologies to Emily

Stupid Emily.

Hope is the thing with feathers?

It's hard to even type that without a sneering heaviness.

Feathers.

I've never known it to have feathers.

Unless they were coated with such pitch and tar that Dawn couldn't begin to cut the edge.

Hope is that thing that gives a half-dead flutter, like the skittering of dry leaves, or desiccated insects. That keeps skittering about at the most inconvenient, painful of times.

It's the questions that remain unanswered in spite... despite... the longing for silence.

It's the acknowledgement of time passing. Of labored breath.

It's more Dickensian than Dickinson.

It's stumbling forward when there's no memory left of 

why 

other than that you said you would.

Now, I long for it to have feathers, or rather wings. Even broken ones. 

But I'm not sure it does.

At least I've never know it to.