Birds know my secret name, but do not tell —
butterflies follow me at a distance, circling
as I stroll in silent reverie, instinct guiding me
as crickets keep cadence with my steps.
Beneath quietly fading stars, echoes resonate —
it was here, somewhere inside this dream,
Hope found me kneeling in depths of night.
Gentle hands touched my face,
brushed hair tenderly from downcast eyes
then unveiled the purity of Faith.
Together, we discovered strength in Solitude,
whispered of Truth and its Beauty,
Beauty and its Truth.
Wings need not be woven with glistening feathers
so we might rise, immersed in Grace, to be adrift
within unmeasured moments, to reveal the breadth
of a breathless landscape — to understand, to acknowledge —
the sanctity, the serenity of Home.
Inspired by Emily Dickinson's poem (#314) beginning with the line,
"Hope" is the thing with feathers"