Waiting makes me cranky. But they claim they'll have my results tomorrow. I'm not going to put too much stock in it. Here is another bit of writing therapy I engaged in today to keep my sanity:
Poem Beginning with a Line by Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
and sharp serrated beak
that each day feeds upon your prayers
and leaves the nights more bleak.
Hope is the final minute
before your time is up;
the dream that makes you chase it
and bars your waking up;
the poison not touching lips;
the vow of siren song;
the gun just within your grip;
the last line of a psalm.
Still you plead for Hope to stay
and worship at its feet.
To send the ache of Hope away
would be the worst defeat.
No comments:
Post a Comment