Off the Floor, In the Yard

It's an odd beast, isn't it?
This thing called hope;
Always coming back after it's been kicked down,
Discarded and disbelieved,
Tucked away in some desk drawer for the night.

It's not always a brighter tomorrow.
It might be a head above water, off the floor,
A resignation to try again.
Surprising lungs full of air, sudden silences in the yard,
At the very least it's making it through the day.
It's not always pretty, picking yourself up again,
But it is enough.