Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.
Never be afraid of the moments–thus sings the voice of the everlasting.
Come oh come ye tea-thirsty restless ones — the kettle boils, bubbles and sings, musically.