So many happy memories of Wash times. Discussions on weather, discussions on tornado-chasing, discussions on humming-bird forays.
Sometimes this Emily Dickenson poem helps me, though I am not entirely sure what it means;
Hope is the thing with feathers.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.
And sweetest in the gale is heard,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Daphne
9th February 2017