Dear Emily
Dear Emily,
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
But it did ask a crumb of me,
A tithe, too dear in bleakest times,
Yet paid in whispered secrecy.
It nestled close when skies were clear,
A gentle murmur soft and sweet,
But when the storm clouds gathered near,
Receded its warmth—subtle, fleet.
The moments in which I sought its embrace,
Found feathers shed on snowy ground,
Each one a blurred memory, a trace,
Of solace lost, seldom found.
Though the Bird demands its silent fee,
And often flies too swift on sight,
Still, in its flight, a truth there lies—
It leaves to teach us how to fight.
