The poem by Emily Dickinson:
Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--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 kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
...and redbreasted Nuthatch...
Milkweed...
Apples...
...and beautiful autumn colors around my home. Here is my old small apple tree (the model for my etching) on the right.
I feel like I can hear Una Furtiva Lagrima (from Donizetti's "L'Elisir D'Amore") when I look around. So much beauty.
Update: just want to add photo from Las Olas Festival. Thank you to all my customers!
