"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
—Emily Dickinson
So, wait—but which
particular bird
was Hope, again? The dark
raven, no,
the white dove—
doesn't matter
much, I suppose, since I haven't
seen either around
here for a while—just this one
slight silver crane,
made from a carefully
folded old gum wrapper
which lies belly-up
and gleams for a second each morning
when I open the flooded top
drawer of my desk;
but I think it's safe to say
this one's given up its quest—
which was never for Hope, anyway
but of course, for Peace and Love—
in the name of bestowing its
little specious branches
of Peace and Quiet, daily, upon this
shabby ark, instead.
