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
the whole of me
in the crushing weight
of a candle whiff.
An inspired flip-side piece to Emily Dickinson’s poem:
“Hope is a thing with feathers“