“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
Emily Dickinson 1830–1886
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.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
This was written by my step-daughter, Hannah Denham.
Petals of the Fallen
Gone, but never forgotten - in honor of the twenty flowers who entered heaven's gates
Petals of the Fallen
I came across the Painter today
His gently worn hands were spattered with flecks
of exuberant colors and hues
He used a cloud for a canvas
Red from passion mixed with the purity of white
for the pink of childhood's rosy cheeks
Dipping his fingers in the green
from virescence of recurring life,
he romanced the image to the skies
"What are you painting?"
I asked the bearded Man
with brown eyes that pierced the soul
He said not a word as his fingers worked
but I took no offense at his silence
and watched as his answer took form
Stalks of green were coaxed to the skyline
One, two, three, I counted
and when creation was complete, there were twenty
Pink blooms smeared the white space
above the stems, painted
not with precision, but untouched beauty
But then the Artist's expression changed.
Deep and anguished sadness
engraved the creases of his face
The white of the canvas turned black
with the darkening of the horizon
and the upheaval of the skies
And then it rained.
The sky opened, its quiet tears disappearing
into the shadow of uprooted innocence
I had forgotten the painter was next to me
until he exhaled into the mist, and
droplets of grief hastened from his whisper
He brushed his fingers once more
into the green of vitality,
sprouting life from the petals of the fallen
It occurred to me then -
though cut off from its source of survival
the essence of each blossom lives on.
From the rain of suffering, and from the tears shed
each spirit can grow, be revivified in the form
of a future in remembrance of the original twenty seeds.