There are as yet no instruments,
no means by which to calibrate
this feeling we identify as hope.
The soul can sense it as a bird,
fragile phalanges arrayed
against wild weather
and encroaching night,
or on a course toward the hunter's
gun that has her in its sight.
For some, hope is a skylark,
rhapsodising high in azure air,
for others, hope is like a dove
who will appear amidst despair.
For me hope is an animal,
gentle as a newborn child,
small and delicate as lambs
born before their time.
For me hope is a heart
consumed by love for every
breath of life, a creature
ruled by innocence and trust
most human beings have lost,
who stands vigil from dusk to dawn
with courage greater than a lion's,
whose loss would shroud the skies
in darkness and eclipse the light.