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
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