Here is one of my favorite poems by the enigmatic and brilliant Emily Dickinson (I got to visit her home in Amherst, Mass. last year).
Hope is the thing with feathers,
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune-without the words,
and never stops at all.
But I also feel that hope is the thing with petals that blooms in your soul, brings the promise of spring to you, and never stops at all.
This morning, when a host of what I felt to be nearly unsolvable problems knocked me down, I walked into my dining room and the day changed for the better. The twigs I had cut and brought indoors a few weeks ago gave me a sweet surprise and uplift. The delicate, papery white blooms of plum and the vibrant green of the first narrow leaves filled my home with life and with hope.
Hope and the promise of spring to you all,
Sharon
