Shortly after my last post.
9:30 p.m.
The light come on—
a glow warm as hope in the doubt-ridden night.

And that brings to mind another poem I love:

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

—Emily Dickinson