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.
Often it feels as though my hope has flown as far away as the east is from the west, but I have found that if I sit still long enough I can start to hear an ever so faint tune being sung deep inside my heart. Sometimes it is the echo of a song from long ago, and other times it is a brand new serenade. When hope perches in our heart it is there to stay, as long as we desire to hear it’s melody. It is up to us whether or not we choose to sing along in harmony and set our hope free to soar within our heart; or we can stuff the melodic notes within the broken pieces of our cage like heart, and miss the gift that can sing healing and peace into our life.
I am learning how to tenderly care for the fragile wings of my hope, and I know one day it will soar strong and able on the wind once more.