The Brown Bird Of Hope
As Emily Dickinson Once Said, “Hope Is The Thing With Feathers.”
Hand pressed to the frigid glass,
Nose a mere inch from the window,
My eyes searched for a sign,
Any sign that everything would be okay.
Where was my bluebird of happiness?
Did such a creature exist?
All external noises were muffled,
Yet I could almost make out a faint birdsong.
Maybe, at that point, the chirping was a figment of my imagination.
Still, I longed for a sign.
Would a bluebird of happiness appear before me?
Would the dreary gray of a cold September afternoon, clear up enough for some hopeful rays to peek through?
Would anyone come, bearing a message of hope and inspiration?
At that moment, I desperately clung to my final shred of hope.
I felt as though the entire world had turned its back on me.
I felt swallowed up by my grief and growing fears.
I longed for a sign, any sign.
No bluebird of happiness ever appeared,
Instead, a round little brown bird landed…
