The Subtle Notes of Hope

 The Hellabore were bent in the dawn light. They looked as though they were breaking. Weighted down with ice and snow, they had come too soon in a fluke warm spell that promised Winter's turning.

    The morning crept on, and the sun grew stronger. The day was cold, a winter's bitter chill filled with shivers and desperate basking with any chance offered.

    And the Spring flowers, they died. A brutal death. Only from hoping too soon. 

    It was enough to kill my faith.

    Enough to singe me to my core and let me wither in the thought of Winter boring on and on. 

    But then I saw the Hellabore in the midday light. Not broken. Not even bent. But sprung. A striking resurrection. 

     The rest of the early flowers will go to their graves, and for them I mourn. Yet.

    Hanging on a lifeline, on the thin threads of sight between my eyes and the Hellabore, are small dots woven in the staff of a melody: the subtle notes of hope.

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