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

I've been watching ibis and egrets and seagulls all day.  Vultures and hawks, too.  The sky is busy with flight.  

I've also been pondering the concept of hope.  An old friend, after a long and difficult recovery from surgery, is beginning chemotherapy today.  On her birthday, no less.  

So Emily's poem has been drifting through my head, in and out in rhythms and rhymes, affording some small measure of comfort.  Small.  Because that thing with feathers, for me, is weak and damaged and unsure of the way out of the storm.  Nonetheless, it has survived.

I am hopeful for many things, large and small.  On the frivolous side, I am hopeful for some good beach weather, a phone call, a good night's sleep.  Nothing depends on these things happening, and nothing bad will happen if the little bird of hope flies away.  

(Okay, this is a bit weird.  As soon as I typed that, I received the phone call I'd been hoping for.  Whoa. Now I'm going to hope for the defeat of the Keystone Pipeline, a sale on Talenti Gelato, and a mild and short winter.)

But my heart is filled with hope for my friend during her treatment, for the safety of my loved ones always, and some degree of peace in this world.  Fly strong, little bird, and let love guide you.