Hope Is the Thing With Buds

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 Spring Rain in Japan

is light and as short as haiku.
When the rain stops, the blossoms fall
in artistic patterns on the ladies’ umbrellas
through air, rain and cherry blossom scented.
Closing my eyes, I record the image.

spring rain

Kawase Hasui, Spring Rain in Ueno Park, 1930

At first, it’s not much of a river

             for Remy

This morning begins silently with little light –

like a river at its mountain source,

just a pool of water flowing downhill –

gathering its kind in increasing potential energy.

A raindrop, seed, a newborn in spring.




The title of this poem is an aphorism by William Stafford.  more info


sunrise over waves

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 blossoms

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.


day planner

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?