The Thing with Feathers

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.
-- Anne Lamott.

In an hour what is sweet may turn sour.
In the next minute a mist of melancholy dampen the mood,
The next second could pull my feet from underneath me,
knock me gut first to the floor, leave me gasping.

Right now, I'm grabbing this very instant
It is apple pie in the oven,
a vase of sunflowers on my table
This minute,
watching the sunrise play capture the flag;
piggy back, on budding trees,
throwing laughter and streams of heat on the porch swing with the cat
who is stretched out, belly up, like a happy buddha.

This doesn't feel like waiting,
as much as working

I'm certain in the knowing that this too will play out,
the old doubt will come looking to lash out at me with it's thorny branch,
he'll linger,
warp and weave
come and go,
rise and fall
in and out
of dark
and light
wax
then wane
every
single
day.