“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. Emily Dickinson
Yep, that’s what Emily said. I beg to differ. If it perched in my soul, The cat ate that damn canary Before it finished its tune. And let me tell you, I never heard anything sweet During a pissed off hurricane. That dang bird knew! Away it flew While the winds whistled Away my roof. I sure as heck didn’t hear Some sweet little bird chirpin’ As I froze my ass off in the northeast. And all I heard as I sweated buckets Under a southern sun was some damn Squawking big ass crow. In fact, I think hope isn’t a bird at all. It might be a well. That might be more apt. Yep, wells aren’t dug or drilled deep enough, Sometimes. And I would imagine Much more can go wrong with a well, Like a pump runnin’ dry. Oh, hell! A well can even be poisoned! But this here well, It’s so dang dry There ain’t even any mud At the bottom. Looks like some cobwebs too. Whatever it had, It done dried right up. So whatever hope is-- A bird, a well, It isn’t always there. It doesn’t stick around, Unless you feed it Before the feathers Drift, Before the water Dries Away.