Hope

That year I searched for the thing with feathers. I used to wake to its song. Didn’t notice When it left, only how much harder It was to rise. Then

I’d find stray feathers Float past my window And wonder. From some Where out of sight I’d hear

A song. Go running and come To a dark wood where the wind Turned branches into a bleating. You could feel a storm coming.

after Emily Dickinson