Hope is a bird with wings.
It rises at the slightest sound,
mistaking every morning for a promise.
Acceptance is the branch.
Bare wood.
A little bent from winter.
It does not call the bird to stay.
It does not ask where it has been or why it flies.
The wind comes.
The leaves fall.
The branch remains.
And sometimes the bird returns,
not because the sky has changed,
but because even wings must rest.
And the branch,
which has never learned to fly,
holds what it can.
