Emily's second tribute to National Poetry Month

“Hope" is the thing with feathers—

by Emily Dickins

 

Chickens are things with feathers

that perch inside the pen

and ruffle so enticingly—

I cannot get at them

 

 

 

And sweetest are the eggs they lay--

if Mom gives them to me

I can be happy all the day

and hope for more or plead--

 

 

 

 

 

If only I were free to try--

I’d love to catch a hen--

I’d pace for hours around the pen

with hope of getting in.

 

You can find the original poem here.