Hope Is The Thing with Feathers Audio
Hope Is The Thing with Feathers
Is hope what we need now?
No, it’s not hope what we need; it’s not; we need to act and a walking cane as it may be or braces that help us move along, it works only when we stretch our legs and move. But truth be told, we are the ones who abandoned hope way more than it abandoned us. Even when we felt it did, it did not. It has always been waiting at the corners of our lives, watching and waiting for us to reach for it to pick us up. It is that bird we gave freedom to, so it flew, but not too high if we have it the very next moment shot.
It’s all in your hands and mine. Whether we decide to do something about whatever may be standing in our way, or stay here and try to rhyme a poem that needs no rhyme. At least this is what I do to fill my tank of hope; what do you do? Who do you blame for what’s happening in the world, and what happens if you knew, would that satisfy you? Whoever fault it was and no matter how many conspiracy theories you and I have got, we’re all in it together, believe it or not. And there is one way out for you and me, together, or not— we stay both in the same bog we stick our heads in the mud and wait for someone to take the blame and tweet about the shame. Well shame on them not. Shame on us if we accept to watch and not do what we can do to stop what we can stop.
The least we can do is pray for those in misery not prey on theirs and try to figure out a way to make our fortunes on a pile of corpses we may not have piled, but surely enough enjoyed standing on top. Today it’s COVID 19, tomorrow it may be war, mayhem or some other killing machine— we care not, for I have you and you have me, and if there is nothing we can do from home, although if you think, this might be a chance to fix the course of our lives and point the ship towards what matters most, or who matters most, but if nothing else, just hope, for hope is the thing with feathers.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By 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.