hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

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 chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.


It is hard these days to muster up the feeling.

In honor of my son-in-law, whose favorite poet is Ms. Dickinson, in honor of the youthful, hopeful feelings he and our daughter bring to our home, in honor of the big Obama poster that says HOPE that I just hung on our front door, in honor of new (old) images that I "rediscover" every now and then, and in consideration of a lovely book of photographs and essays entitled "Hope Photographs" I recently received as a gift, I make today's post.