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.
--Emily Dickinson

I recently found this poem and really like it. So much that I have a print with the 1st two lines hanging in my living room. Just wanted to share it with you.

Still nothing new. I called the detective last week and was not surprised by his comment, "We are waiting on the Crime Lab." And so we wait . . . . .