I decided to look up one of my favorite words along with my favorite poet. Here’s what I got:
What? Emily Dickinson hasn’t posted anything within 14 days??
And then I thought of how we rekindle our own imaginations – through the eyes of children, of course.
Then, I thought of Shel Silverstein.
But this is my all-time favorite:
And, by the way – Just because Emily hasn’t posted in a while doesn’t mean she’s not alive.
see more here
I measure every Grief I meet (561)
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –
I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –
I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –
I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –
The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –
There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –
And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –
To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they’re mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own –
photo credit of Emily Dickinson, my FAVORITE poet.
Daily Word Prompt: Enlighten
Before I gift you with my favorite poem (and I DO believe it to be a worthy present) I want to share something with you.
My mother loved birds. She loved watching them eat from their feeders and poke their beaks at her sliding glass door. And, she watched them as she became weaker with age.
I knew of this poem but, after Mom died, it took on a greater significance. As a gift, my sister had this necklace made for me.
On the flip side is the first stanza of my favorite poem.
Here is the beautiful poem by Emily Dickinson:
A big thank you to Ms. Dickinson for creating this poem and to my sister for gifting me with this reminder.
And especially to Mom who, kept warm my soul.
Hope is the thing with feathers.
Daily Word Prompt: Crumb
After my sweet mom died, I made this shadow box for my heartbroken father. (These are paper doves, not stuffed!) Together, Mom and Dad had always enjoyed the sweet sound of mourning doves and kept their bird and squirrel feeders full. Now, my parents live together in a softer place.
The poem is Emily Dickinson’s:
Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches on the soul
and sings a tune
without the words
and never stops at all.
For this coming new year, my wish for all of you is to feel the love, peace, joy and hope in the soft tickles of feathers.