"Hope" is the thing with feathers-/that perches in the soul-/And sings the tune without the words-/And never stops at all." Emily Dickinson
It won't go away. My natural instinct appears to be to hope. It stubbornly tags alongside me.
Decades ago I received a copy of Dickinson's collected poems. My heart aches with the truth of her words.
Hope obstinately sits beneath my window. I've shut it tightly. Drawn the blinds. Nonetheless I can hear its faint but continuous song. My sycophant embellishing each irrelevant detail to hope's advantage.
Hope lingers. Loitering within my dreams. Slow to leave but ever-so-quick to return. Softly nurtured in my sleep.
Hope's delicate whisper of wing to wind never ceases. Would it be wiser to hope for nothing?
I am not yet brave enough to let hope leave me completely. In silence. Alone.
Perhaps the wisdom truly comes with hoping for everything, yet admitting that we know not when it will arrive.