“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Emily Dickinson
At My Drifting Edge How to desribe the bigness of life with the impatient failings of words that judge and hem us in making meaning so small, skirting round the yeasty feltness of things that desire to rise and grow, life is big, love is bigger, an encompass of the wholeness of we, but I found at my drifting edge of view a simple grey feather, a dovely gift of no decimal value that in its dullness shone with promises of hope, that all the coin of the world could never be given receipt. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
