“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches on the soul,
And sings the song 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 keeps so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillestd land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-- Emily Dickinson
To Mom, On her Special Day
Preheat oven to 87o on June day,
Start with one airplane to Egypt.
Add a pinch of dry air,
And one hundred thousand dollars to spend,
A half-cup of brown sand,
One bucket of pictures and love,
Mix together calmly
With a sprinkle if laughter,
And a dash of ever-loving happiness.
Serve in a bowl of amazement.
- Jillian Zhu