Passerine

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

-Emily Dickinson

In the darkness of mid-winter

when shadows mar the ground

the tree that homes the sparrow

shivers snow from its arms.

The spruce protects the innocent

shrouds the one it fathers

needles prick away at prey,

blankets those that matter.

Together they will last the weathers.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -

Small enough to brave the branches

quiet enough to sit,

overlooked until it's needed,

calmer than the ebbing tide.

Sleeping in the frozen winters,

patient to fulfil its role,

it feeds on love and cherished hugs

starving day by day.

Peckish thing, not quite whole,

That perches in the soul -

It wakes in fleeting moments,

one eye open to the chaos,

weaker than the sickest dog

while stronger than all hate.

Friends flock to form a force

courage shepherds all its herds

the strong, powerful, and kind.

In the solstice of the winter,

the sparrow leads the birds

And sings the tune without the words -

Sweat and tears melt the snow

sunshine parts the clouds

seen at last, beneath the cloak

of pine and thorns and chill.

Fingers brushing plumage,

antiphon to despair's call,

a song stored within our heart,

the chorus soft, but ringing.

The melody is bright in squall

And never stops - at all -