Dear Ms. Dickinson,

Yes Emily, hope is a thing that perches in the soul,

but it is neither feathered nor sings.

It has lost its plumage to mange,

and it wails for its broken wing. 

It can no longer fly,

and it must remain on the ground with me.

Its cries are pitiful,

and I wish to put it out of its misery. 


Excerpt from The Familiar and Ordinary