Time for that lovely poem by Red Saner called Green Feathers. It’s about moss, like the kind that grows on old headstones, but it’s all about hope, this springy green stuff, not the end of hope. Listen:
Five minutes till dawn and a moist breath of pine resin comes to me as from across a lake. It smells of wet lumber, naked and fragrant. In the early air
We keep trying to catch sight of something lost up ahead, A moment when the light seems to have seen us Exactly as we wish we were.
Like a heap of green feathers poised on the rim of a cliff?
Like a sure thing that hasn’t quite happened? Like a marvelous idea that won’t work? Routinely amazing – How moist tufts, half mud, keep supposing
Almost nothing is hopeless. How the bluest potato Grew eyes on faith the light would be there. And it was.
And it was: the light was there. Welcome new life! Alleluia!