“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, c.1861
(tufted titmouse sits amongst the branches of a tulip tree/ Julie Cook / 2014)
What waits amongst the hope of a season’s waning cheer?
What waits amongst the hope of yet another passing year?
What waits amongst the hope of a rainy December day?
What waits amongst the hope in a sky so dull and grey?
What waits amongst the hope hidden in a darkened room?
What waits amongst the hope of a single tiny bloom?
What waits amongst the hope for a lonely face so sad?
What waits amongst the hope for a weary world gone mad?
What waits amongst the hope of the joy of a coming Spring?
What waits amongst the hope of the story of the new born King?
What waits amongst the hope of humankind this year to be?
Our hope is soon forth coming for all the world to see.
For unto to us a child is born, for us a son now given.
He comes as Hope made manifest for all our sins forgiven.
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