My soul rides aboard a paper parasol, eyes wide to the dreaming land. Every vivid hue is where pastel meets neon haze. Into the air I whoop, my lungs singing in anti-thunder boom. Then from my brain comes bubbles of happy rainbow swirl, each of them a snow globe that is to winter quite unknown.
Starling feathers in the sky, as if dipped in earthen ink, wrote their tale in aviated calligraphy. They sang in heaven’s key, high above the milling crowds: so free, so merry, so blithe. That day they were my heart-scribes, writing the very essence of my soul, the worth of each mortal beat within my chest. How I treasure the simple memories of that simple day. How I treasure the emotions that bade erstwhile doubts adieu. How I treasure the old me who was lost, yet is now found. In the gentle winds of spring, in the expanse of one breath, my heart was reborn a starling; with my soles upon a quilt of green, as they graced the blue, my wings opened wide.
Through the concrete, born in darkness, came a flower so bright that the world stopped spinning for a moment. It shouldn’t be possible, but there it was. It was as startling as seeing a house hover for no reason, or a fish sit on the moon. For so long now I’d been believing a certain set of defined facts, accepting limitations. But if this flower can give a Chelsea flower show performance from the mean grist of a paving slab, what can I do? Where can I go? I want to be the granite that thinks it's helium.
"Hopeful" is a kind of intelligent bravery, the will to seek what is good, to keep walking for the chance of a better things to come.
Hopeful is the starlight that whispers of the sun.
Hope comes upon a white horse and speaks of horizons yet unseen.
Hope comes to keep your pilot light on in the icy wind.