I see her in the solitary snowflake
captured on my mitten,
and the first drop of rain
chasing a dry, dusty day.
I have glimpsed her in a sunset,
gently putting the day to rest.
Once, she visited me in a
sun-speckled afternoon,
when I forgot my obligations.
We sat together,
inhaling Autumn for a moment.
She lives in the dawn,
just before my eyes fully open,
before I remember the body
I am connected to.
Though I have betrayed
her in my worries,
doubts and fears,
she has remained
steadfast in our friendship.
Hope.
I need only be, and she will stay.
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
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.
Always a good one.
Wrapping you in my arms with so much love and ache. Sending you light and strength and peace ❤️
I feel that.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
-Mary. Elizabeth Frye-