Hope

Emily Dickenson wrote a poem called Hope that I thought about tonight after three conversations with friends-- all at the same time on Facebook-- three people I needed to reconnect with for different reasons and the same reason. I needed a glimmer of hope. The poem is below:

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.