Photo credit to http://www.findagrave.com/
I don't want to reveal too much of a private matter here, but suffice it to say that a loved one was in trouble, deep, life-threatening trouble. I was powerless to help, except for moral support, since the problem's cause and its cure were entirely in the loved one's hands and no one else's.
I could not and would not pray, but I could hope, and Ms. Dickinson's poem, Hope, gave voice to that yearning, and truly sustained me through that dry season.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.