What is untrue may still be beautiful:
hope, for instance, or a sense of choice.
Beautiful to walk the streets this morning
with the leaves changing color, to hear them
murmur with one voice and know
the light will never be the same again;
beautiful to share in this sudden lightness,
to wander weightless as a dream
through the new woken air; beautiful
to feel the muscle of belief
at work in the world, for though our hope
be foolish it is not foolish to hope,
but human, necessary, and to feel capable
of that is already to be changed.
Disappointment is inevitable.
Time must be dealt with, winter faced.
But something of this day may remain
to sustain us, some ember of warmth
from a season of glory, the joy
of knowing that our voices,
however small, however shaken,
have finally been heard.