Springing from sleep, leaping from the morning covers, and evening slumber, there is hope. Wise-eyed spirit, young and full of possibilities, even in middle age. We find hope in the sunrise, in the successful procedure, in the phone call, the text you never thought you would see again. We have hope when the flowers rise from ashes of winter’s demise, and when the first bird chirps after violent storms. Hope is breath. It’s the first cry of a newborn baby, and the first breath after that dreaded heart attack. Hope mends us, prepares us for another day. Hope is the blood of life, and the life in death. Without hope, we are shells of ourselves. Hope springs from the spirit of love.