I’m not sure if I understand what hope means but I do know that every spring the magnolia trees shake loose from the ache of winter and slip into something a little more like unabashed promise. Last night while I was sleeping thousands of birds traveled thousands of miles to find their way back home to the same tree tracing cartographs of belonging under the moonlight throats full with righteous sun-kissed songs that say yes we are still here we are still alive now together. Everyone keeps saying how long and hard this winter was after the golden hour of autumn was met with seeds planted and blood spilled with land tended and trees uprooted with collective resistance and history repeated. But then spring unfurls and reminds us that like tents pitched in manicured lawns like the murmuration of feet marching like the sound of voices singing together praying together wailing together the wildflowers are reaching for light through the cold hard earth pushing through pavement all slick with grief because love will always find a way to bloom.
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