Hope is the thing with the feathers
Not asking a crumb of me or you.
We keep the crumbs to ourselves
All the crummy ones for the ants
The busily queued ants along wall
Skirting the end of our awareness.
We gather them to feed our ants,
When a lamp will alight our head,
And ants carry them to the holes
Where they store all our crumbs.
(remembering Emily Dickinson’s poem Hope is The Thing with Feathers)