In honor of National Poetry Month, I’ve decided to post a little more poetry than normal over the remainder of the month. I may post someone else’s poetry, or I may post my own. I encourage all of you writers out there (Emily, Jana, Amy, this means you.) to refresh your writer’s hand and compose one of your own. Put your schoolbooks down for a few minutes, take a moment out of your workday, and compose something, even if it is just a few lines. It will be good for the soul! I plan to write one or two myself, and I’ll post them here when I do.
I challenge all of you, whether a writer or not, to also do something to celebrate National Poetry Month; read a poem, go to a poetry reading, or even just walk through the poetry section at your local bookstore and see if anything calls out to you. Who knows? You might discover something you never dreamed!
Today’s Poem is by one of my favorite poets, Emily Dickinson (Jai, this one’s for you!):
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.