Hope and Spring

“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 land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

 

Spring is inching out. A few intrepid flowers bursting forth, brazen, possibly foolhardy.

 

Sunshine and splashes of color help lift the spirits, as do little girls' gasps of wonder, "Mommy, the flowers! They came!"

 

Grudgingly, I feel hope and joy flutter in with spring. Barren winter giving way to renewal, blossoming.

Time to look past loss and embrace the new.

What brings you hope?