Hopes and Dreams

Can hopes and dreams be made in the moment,

stitched from breath and light and quiet belief.

Where They rise softly with the morning,

fragile as dew on the edge of becoming.

And when the hours pass

without you beside them,

without your shadow crossing mine,

I feel a small mourning in each sunset.

It is not loud.

It does not beg.

It simply sits with me—

at the table, in the car,

in the space where laughter might have landed.

My dreams are born daily,

but so is the grief

of watching them walk through the day

without your hand in them.

Still, hope returns each morning

as faithfully as light—

because even in your absence

the moment remembers

what it was made to hold.