Hope was a fragile angel

born of words.

A candlelight in the distance

on a dark night

after many dark nights.

A shifting shape,

a pattern in sand

formed by the wind

of our words.

A phantom of reality,

out of reach

yet always in sight.

Flickering like sunlight

between the birches.

Always there,

in the corner of my vision,

moving, like a breeze

across the grasses,

a ripple on the water

and I moved toward it.

Comes a shadow,

a turn,

a mere whisper

of a silken dress

among the trees

on another path

and the phantom is gone.

Too intangeable.

Never more

than the outline,

of the word,

hope.

 Dej  March 09