What are years if not measured by trees?
What are weeks if not measured by the growth of a water lily,
reaching up from a swollen seed, hoping to surface?
What is hope if not a pot of soil,
the growth of a single root?
What if hope slipped through the letterbox,
or jumped in through the window,
and infected us all with a new disease?
Is it a malady, to wish for something new?
What if hope comes crashing through the door
like a battering ram,
or flooding from the taps?
Will we sit it down on the comfy chairs,
present a cup of tea and say
Gosh, how long has it been since I saw you last?

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