It is fine that Emily Dickinson believed that hope is the thing with feathers.
I choose the broken branches that fell during the winter ice storm in January
and whose buds opened one April afternoon.
I was a bit surprised in looking through the poems on this site that I have written a number of poems about hope in some way. I suppose that is a good thing – though not all the poems are “hopeful.” “Hope is the thing with feathers” is the poem by Emily Dickinson that inspired my poem today.
The cloudy afternoon through the red maple – painted leaves, inked branches, white paper sky. This could be a haiku about spring here seven thousand miles away from Osaka where every line counts as seven beats.
Again I watch the sun rise east
climbing over me, stationary in my home,
and setting, as always, to the west.
If at the North or South Poles,
that’s not so. No East. No West.
Spring came early this year – a day
early astronomically speaking, but weeks earlier relatively,
based on my garden’s buds and shoots.
Perhaps not North of me and not
the Southern Hemisphere, where spring is autumn.
It’s a month of Saturdays in retirement.
Or perhaps every day is now Wednesday,
since weekend days still seem somehow special
hanging off my calendar in another color.
Are there still 24 hours each day?
a thinning crescent as it slowly sweeps
past four bright morning planets – first Jupiter
then Mars, Saturn and Mercury, the crescent
points at them this morning of equinox.
Golden Saturn invisible to me – but there.