The hope arrives--
crisp as the fall lakefront air.
It wears brusied blues + hues.
We open the door for it, this ghost.
We seat it on the couch,
offer it an Old Style beer.
It speaks in a known language--
a bearable mantra
of anew--of "this year!"
Hope takes the field + fumbles.
We watch it fall,
during each fall,
all fall all again.
The final whistle helps
Hope gathers its things--
leaving the static
of the long, blue shadow of January--
patient, foolish heart that will,
without question, answer the door
when it returns.
Here is today's poem called "Lincoln's Lakeside" It's okay #Bearfans #bears #chicago #fan #poetry #poem #vss365 #prompt #poetsofbluesky #writing #bearable