“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
Serena strolls down the sidewalk, thumbing through her treasured collection of Emily Dickinson poems, not unlike a typical teenager scrolling through their Facebook feed. She studies the rhyme, cadence, and metaphors woven into the lines—reaching inside for the essence entwined in the fluid strokes of Emily’s pen. She skips over cracks in the pavement, conscious of each click of her steps. To her, the air is fresh and crisp. To her, the sky is a never-before-seen shade of blue. The music of songbirds from a nearby oak merges with the taste of the syllables on her lips. The words hold her hands, guide her through the city to the river’s edge . . . each moment a new possibility to ponder . . . each breath another lifetime to live.
bird’s-eye view
the glow of a rising moon
branch to branch
Note: Emily Dickinson’s line above is from her poem, ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers.’
First published in The Haibun Journal