The Sound of Hope

A sparrow is singing.

The ground is covered with a crust of sleet and snow,
And the pale clouds press down the early morning light.
Everything is still, frozen in a timeless winter without thaw.

Waking, I long to stay asleep, close my eyes
In protest of one more day of darkness.

At the window, the buds of the maple are tightly closed
And the pine tree’s needles are dry and yellowed.

The house is cold and dark, the only sound
The furnace fanning dry air
Into rooms like an arctic desert.

But somewhere, just at the edge of hearing,
A sparrow is singing.

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