HOPE

HOPE is the thing with feathers—Emily Dickinson. Every year, a bird rebuilds its nest, ruined by the winds of winter. Every year it travels hundreds, if not thousands of miles, to do so. Every year it raises a brand new family. Every morning it rises to sing the songs of sunrise. Every day it lives its life as best it

IN THE MIDST of a Minnesota spring blizzard

IN THE MIDST of a Minnesota spring blizzard, and what sometimes seems a blizzard of bad news and negativity, here is a timeless poem. Wonderful for today. For any day. A poem like this is like a message in a bottle, a candle in the night. And just as the bird’s song “sweetest in the gale is heard,” a candle’s