Hope and gratitude
Hope is a very delicate thing. A tender whisper cupped to breast. I can place it in the arms of gratitude and allow it to flourish. It is but a tiny presence purring ‘grow me’. I surrender in it’s call for grace. The unknown pregnant with miracles beyond my awareness. All I can do is trust. I bathe in stream of gratitude, taste the honey of now. Fruit pressed to my lips allowing gentle crease, tastes of heaven. In the now I am whole.