Snoopy in Green Light

The big Snoopy I got for Christmas,

fluorescent green—

a glow-in-the-dark secret

under the hum of a new black light.

Softness lived in his fur,

a fabric that held more than threads—

it held safety,

a quiet hush of “you’re not alone.”

That Snoopy smile,

round as the moon

yet steady as sunrise,

looked straight at me,

as if to say:

hope wears ears and a grin.

When the world

pulled the plug on my joy,

he glowed anyway.

A reminder that light

doesn’t ask permission—

it just finds the dark

and insists on shining.

Snoopy was no stuffed toy,

but a sentinel of laughter,

a metaphor stitched in green:

hope is soft,

hope is smiling,

hope is waiting in the corner

to catch your eye

and tell you—

the dark is never the end.