Hope, Emily

Hope, Emily, is not a thing with feathers
It is dread fluffed up and warm.
And when storms come as it must
the wings flaying too long
swoop low under the pelting rain
–crunched, by a speeding locomotive.

Where hope is 
dread is only
a feather’s breadth away
It doesn’t ask a crumb of me
It asks
the whole of me
in the crushing weight 
of a candle whiff.

Writers note:
An inspired flip-side piece to Emily Dickinson’s poem:
Hope is a thing with feathers

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