Where there is a will, there is often a way. Troy R. Bennett | BDN

I shot this photo in Portland, not far from my house, last week. I didn’t know what to do with it but I couldn’t bring myself to erase it, either. I looked at it again today and it reminded me of this poem.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers, she says. It’s also the flower that struggles through the bricks toward the sun.

Hope is the thing with feathers

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“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.