It’s November. Pandemic reigns
And reins in my plans.
I am not solely heavy-hearted, for
Untold souls join me, at sea
In aloneness, without solace
Or solstice.

Something lingers, longing,
On the floor of Pandora’s jar,
Waiting to enthrall (however small)
And dispel (if not to quell)
Despair from the heart.

Hope is the helium of the heart.
When talk is walled off (or at loggerheads)
Hope breaks the sound barrier.
When night befalls (as it must,
Sooner or later) the mind,
Hope comes at the speed of light
To illuminate a possibility.
Or two. Or more.

When insistence bars the door, hope opens.
When singing falls silent, hope harmonizes.
When isolation chills the bones, hope’s hug warms.

As the year’s daylight shrinks
Hope lingers, waiting
To enthrall (however small)
And help the heart
Defy gravity and remember
To give thanks
Despite it all.

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