At play
Now that November has settled on us like a soft grey shawl, it’s hard to imagine that only a few short weeks ago, our world was bathed in sunlight and autumn leaves.
The beginning of October was celebrated with an adventure to the climbing tree,
Where no child was too old to fill her boots with water
Or enjoy the warmth of the old tree and the delicious chill of bare feet in cool air.
Small boys played with sticks – and shadows,
And finally, exhausted from jumping off the tree too many times,
Enjoyed the last rays of sunshine on the patchwork quilt of autumn grass.
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Hope is the thing with feathers
I caught this bird basking on the golden branches of a tree and it struck me
How large the bird was, and how slender and fragile the branches.
Sometimes, life feels like that: the heavy weight of a burden
Sitting on the fragile tree of life.
You don’t think you can support the weight. But you do.
Because just like that lovely tree, we are stronger than we realize.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all.
– Emily Dickinson
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Who says what?