“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - - Emily Dickinson
Waiting for the angry sky to spread across the mountains, Shifting its vehemence from the high plains To the undulation of dark pines And valleys That meet at the wild boundary lines Of the Dakotas.
The distant sound of thunder shakes the ground And does not rumble like a gentle summer storm, But implodes within the atoms of the air Like somewhere in the night Exists the frontlines of a war.
It draws ever near.
And it is enough to scare this little bird away; Yet, she sings into the dying of the day, And bravely turns to face the Driving wind, Wings extended out and in To the torrent of the rain.
She is accustomed to the pain Of singing all alone Abandoned in the darkness of a soul That has almost given up.
But as each storm approaches, I am beginning to trust That she is always there.
Her bright wings flutter in the deepest hollows of despair. Her colors light the air between the clashing of the clouds And when the lightening flares I can see her Suspended there Still.
I reach out to grab her. Surely, she cannot survive a storm of this magnitude, Not this time.
But you take my hand in yours and tell me, “She will be fine,” And even though the sky is falling I believe you.
Is there any greater gift than the restoration of hope?