Bird

I've been thinking a lot lately, though it's so non-specific, it's hard to verbalize. I've been thinking about hope and death and respect and ancestors. I've been thinking about rest and thought and again about hope. These themes are stuck just rolling around waiting for an aha that I don't have yet.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickinson.

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.

What keeps that hope-bird alive?