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. Emily Dickinson
It's been a long while since I've come across this poem and today it seemed fitting -- both for the unusual image I found on a walk with the tots this past week and following my more drear post of a few days ago. Hope defined: Seeming fragility that belies a deep-rooted resilience and strength. A spot of blue in a field of drying, old leaves.