May 7th, 2002

don't fear death

hope is the thing with feathers....

"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.

a sore storm i have been some time.... not bashing the bird that kept others warm, but despising it. no room in my house for this bird, even as i would oft open the door and invite it in.... i would, as quickly, bid it leave. i never heard it, because i would not listen.
i hear it now. i am infused with it. impossibilities are falling behind and giving way to the garden lights of possibility.

the ice princess is melting :)

peace and soft smiles...
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