Last night I fell asleep

while the snow hurried down

with silent urgency.

This morning, the urgency

is gone.

And the world is new and

beautiful.

Blue-white in the early light.

Snow lies precariously

on the thin branches.

Temporarily breathtaking.

The way we rest

on a slender

hope, finding refuge

from a world of too many possibilities.

At any moment

we may be displaced

by a waft of air or

fortune.

And yet in the pulse

of our lives,

the tiny invisible molecules

working, working,

the chemical flash of our neurons,

the constant expanding and refolding

of coils of unimaginable information,

we remember that our existence

depends on change.

And if we are dislodged from hope,

if we are blown about by despair,

the shift of time and atoms and seasons

reminds us:

The world will be made new.

The world will be made new.

The world will be made new.

Whether by water or flowers or fire,

or a sudden shift

in perspective.

So we cling to our

thin hopes,

and if we are lucky

we remember that the next moment

may look different from this one,

whether we wait and see

or leap forth

into the Unknown,

hoping to find out

what happens next.