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There is a poem that reminds me of a friend I haven’t seen in ages, literally ages of myself and, I can only imagine, ages for her as well.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers, by Emily Dickinson

“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.

The above painting that is entitled “Loiseau de l’espoir” by Sylvie Lemelin is available on [her website][2].

[]: http://bp0.blogger.com/_b2anAyo1mOo/SAkfv3uiTFI/AAAAAAAAAGw/Mn3f1naG758/s1600-h/L oiseau de l espoirweb.JPG [2]: http://www.toutenart.com/Sylvie Lemelin/SylvieLemelinport.htm