a poem in my pocket

hope smells

like fresh petrichor

of welcome spring rain

hope tastes

like first juicy tomato

of sun-ripened summer

hope sounds

like migration call

of swan o’er autumn field

hope feels

like flickering flame

of log in winter hearth

For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

(Romans 8:24-25 ESV)