As Emily Dickinson said
"Hope is a thing with feathers"
But to me it is not.
It is something far different.

Instead hope is warm and fuzzy
Furry - a cat, not a dove.
Hope is gone - and back in an instant
Like it really never went away.

Hope is a thing that is fickle
And leaves us when we need it most
It is brutal and hating
Because it disappoints in the end.

Hope is something that can't be swayed
But can be ripped down in an instant
It is wonderful and loving
Because it brings the best out of us.

And yet hope stays and goes and comes right back,
Fleetingly scrawling it's talons against the nearest chalkboard-
But it is no bird.
Instead hope is more of a cat, scratching at the door of my bedroom,
Asking me to let it in,
As I attempt to actually sleep.