August was a particularly bad month, even compared with the rest of 2020, so I’m not really feeling up to writing an entire reading wrap-up. Instead, I’m going to share this Emily Dickinson poem I always think about when the world seems to offer nothing good. I’m not a huge poetry fan, and I usually don’t memorize quotes, but this poem has always clung on for whatever reason. I hope it can help some of you, too. Next month, it’ll be back to your regularly scheduled programming.

“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.