The title of this post was taken from the title and first line of a poem by Emily Dickinson (I share the poem at the end my post, with gratitude).

Here's the thing: I have a book of her (Emily Dickinson) poems - or at least I did at one time - who knows where it could be today. When I could get my hands on it I read the poems and reread them and reread them . . . sigh . . . and reread them. You see, I think poetry is beautiful form of art. Nonetheless, I have not the first clue about structure or form or elements of poetry. For instance, I did not know (until today) a sonnet - to actually be a sonnet - must consist of 14 lines. Truthfully, I'm left a bit empty knowing this. I mean, it's exhausting, seriously. There are odes and ballads. There are elegies (not to be confused with eulogies) and epics. I repeatedly hear that "swoosh" sound as meaning, tempo, and symbolism do a "fly by" over my head. I need to stop . . . my brain is beginning to hurt!

Oh but wait . . . there is one form of poetry I get every time . . . limericks . . . hahahahaha . . . . oh yes I get those. Every. Single. Time.!

Having said that, every once in awhile a poem will happen into my sphere that doesn't make my brain explode. One that resonates with me, gets me curious; makes me want to find the well hidden treasure of intent. "Hope" is a thing with feathers" is one of those poems. My interpretation is just that . . . mine. Right or wrong what this means to me comes from my soul. I want to paint a picture of hope because of this poem. You might be figuring out I'm a big big fan of hope . . . huge! Well I can't paint anymore than I can grasp poetry . . . but a girl can dream - yes? Ahhhh, perhaps my canvas is this blog . . . When I close my eyes I see embolden filigree sails navigating my ship of hope through inevitable hurricanes and gentle breezes. It's abstract (just like hope itself) yet somehow finite.

It's brilliant, her use of "feathers" to describe hope. The imagery she presents is alluring and comforting. Feathers are so fragile yet somehow battle hope through the most devastating tempest. Still singing. the bird, that is our hope, lands on a branch to watch the darkness of the storm vanish when faced with the far-reaching light of a new day.

Hope's home is in our soul and ignites our spirit. Hope has no need for colloquium when soothing your tired mind or your aching heart or your weary body. Hope is one of God's greatest gifts to us. Hope tells us to stand up - dust off. Hope is laughter through the tears. Hope changes our choices.

Hope is not prayer, however, hopeful prayer has no limits.

Fly freely through your storms on the wings of hope . . . go ahead . . . it may not change your journey's end but it will give you one remarkable ride until you get there! Hope will never ask a crumb of you.


"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 of land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.