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.

Hope. The thing with feathers.

The brilliant poet Emily Dickinson wrote this. And it is a poem that most people know, but one that could be dismissed as quaint, or naive.

This morning, a day after the election, I think these words are meant for me.

A simple metaphor, yet perfect.

As the urban chicken farmer, I can see this thing that Dickinson describes. A small bird, that flits and flies – is here and gone, within a moment.

Flighty, inconsistent, mostly wild, hidden.

Yes, it is so easy to let cynicism and rationality overtake the mood. But I think it the braver thing, the harder thing, to consider the birds, the feathers.

To let this moment rise.

The bird may never be the strongest animal but it is here and now, for this day. And as the poet says: it asks not a crumb of me.

Because really, what does it cost me to put aside my tired cynicism?

We are all trying to believe in a new promise for our country. And today, as I walk the stone path through my backyard, back to the chicken coop, I know that this hope is a light, gossamer thing.

If you know birds, you know the nature of fragility and outcome. Faith, and lots of scattered feed, and then a prayer and a letting go.

And so, today I choose to let my heart lift with the birds – yes, they are inconsistent and flighty – but what’s the point otherwise?

It seems to me that negative thinking and critical analysis only clips the wings of a creature that wants to ride the thermal winds to see a distant ocean.

To be free.

Oh, to see that world from where I perch!

And to imagine another distant shore, another place to lay my head and fold my wings.

Hope, the thing with feathers.

Sitting on the front porch swing, sipping a glass of white wine as the sky darkens. A crispness to the air on this early November evening.

Across the street at the Methodist church, a lone figure is setting out paper bag luminaries along the sidewalk, preparing for some kind of ceremony.

A wedding? A funeral?

The ritual and the wine warm me. And as the man moves down the neighborhood block, it strikes me that we are all setting out our little lanterns these days – we light a spark in the direction of some sort of hope, to keep up our positive energy, to keep going.

And we watch and wait.

From our darkened porches and near-empty houses, we wait.

The row of white paper bags line up crisply, in a direction not always mapped out. Whether it is an ending or a beginning, it’s often uncertain, not always so clear.

My son turned 29 yesterday, on Halloween. At our small gathering, I was a tiny bit misty, and wandered around in the backyard, carrying the photo album, sidling up to people to point out the pictures of his birth.

I know, I’m that mom.

Anyway – no one was nearly as interested as I’d hoped – but for me it was all in the details. Those tiny remembrances that, if left unacknowledged, would go missing.

Like the fact that he was a scary shade of blue when he came into the world. Or that he had a golden halo of fuzz around his soft, perfectly-shaped head. Or the way he felt so light, but also solid. And how he radiated confidence from the very beginning.

The memories are mine to kindle. My little candle in the paper bag.

The memories are mine to kindle. My little candle in the paper bag.

And tonight I set them out there on my little patch of front yard, to say, this is the light, this is the goodness in the world.

And so, block by block, along the cracked sidewalk, I imagine striking another match to a candle in the neighborhood procession – the birth memory, a poem, a love letter, a kiss – just a small yes, in reply to the darkness that is so hard to see beyond.