“”Hope” is a thing with feathers...”
Only, I don’t think it is.
See, feathers mean it’s a flighty thing
And belie its true belligerence.
Hope may yet have feathers,
But forget not the claws.
Hope is a thing with brambles;
Hope has a tendency to stick in crops.
This little burr adheres to the underside,
Never noted unless poked.
It clings tightly in the smallest gap
And can’t be ignored once evoked.
Now, I grant you, Hope may seem rather rare,
But lay on your stomach at night; you’ll find that it’s there.
I haven’t written in a long time. It’s for a lot of reasons. Sometimes, I just don’t feel like I’m good enough. Sometimes, I lack inspiration. Poetry, as it was once said, “is the spontaneous overflow of human emotion.” And that’s what this was. I’m terrible at meter. I have to break out a dictionary to know how many syllables a word has. But following a conversation this morning regarding covid and human nature, this erupted from me in the space of 5 minutes. I haven’t changed it; I haven’t edited it. To the world, to the politicians, to those I love, this is the only message I have about the pandemic. Take it as you will. And thank you, as ever, to the extraordinary Emily Dickinson.
