It’s Emily Dickinson’s birthday. What a contemplative soul. What a complementary celebration of lives and deaths today in remembering ED and Nelson Mandela. I’ve read this poem over and over today.
“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 Birdthat kep 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.
So now I ask in a wondrous way…what if we responded to this tune …hope…what if we responded with words that have yet to have a tune…or no…i know they have had a tune….strong and sure, and perhaps forgotten. what if those words sounded out now, forming a deconstructed/reassembled song. culminating in all the dissonance becoming harmonies becoming sines and cosines, peaks and troughs. let’s deconstruct the tune and reshape it because
what choice do we have?