It will whisper in the wind
and ask of you the unreasonable:
Can you break down that Jericho wall
that guards your heart—
the one you built with the debris of
unkept promises and broken dreams?
Will you rend
that blanket of false security—
that tattered, threadbare thing
you stitched together with skeins of lies
and distractions that now
reeks with the musk of fear?
It will crook its finger and beckon,
asking you to believe the impossible:
that anything is possible,
and that you can chase away the darkness
with a mere pinprick of light.
You know it’s not easy to let hope in.
Easy is to accept things as they are,
easier still to expect the worst.
But hope expects you to work.
It gives you its infinitesimal spark
and requires you to tend it,
add kindling and
gently fan that first tender, orange flame
until a fire roars.
Then it will gently touch your shoulder
and ask you again:
Will you reach out your hands—
let the heat warm the cold fingers of
the hands you’ve been wringing in despair,
let feeling come back into your body
until, cell by cell, you feel alive again?
And with the lifeblood pumping through your veins,
the spark now aglow in your eyes,
will you dare to try one more time?