We are not living in hopeful times. And yet there are angels, persistent ones, and brave ones. Perhaps you too are in need of a little lightness, a bit of hope, some feathers. The epigraph to the novel I'm writing (still writing toward the first draft so this could change) is the following:

“We need to be angels for each other, to give each other strength and consolation. Because only when we fully realize that the cup of life is not only a cup of sorrow but also a cup of joy will we be able to drink it.”

― Henri J.M. Nouwen

I'm in that rather wonderful spot that writers get to inhabit only rarely – knowing I have a new book (essays) coming out in the Spring of 2018, and being also deep in the workings of a novel. At any rate, every morning, nearly every morning, I open my novel file, and there they are, these words from Henri Nouwen. 

I'm a big one for looking for signs, as in the quotation below. And suddenly, I'm seeing feathers everywhere. Out on my walks, on the sidewalk on in a tree, on instagram, in my Facebook feed. And I've been thinking about the scene in my novel, Rumi and the Red Handbag, where one of the characters finds that a feather has fallen from the sky into her open hand....(This is something that happened to me in real life, and I know I'm not the only one). 

"We are always limited to what we ask for (so why
      not ask for wings). Therefore, desire becomes a flight
      marker. For surely we hover over what we have done
      as though we have wings — looking for signs that will
      tell us where to go, and if we have gone somewhere,
      what it means."

 – by Primus St. John, from his poem, "Like van Gogh, I can't begin in Prose."

One can't really reference poetic feathers, and not mention the oft quoted Dickinson poem. So here it is, and I don't think it ever gets old. 

"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.

This next poem is about a leaf, but I can't help imagining it could also be a floating feather. 

Faith

by Czeslaw Milosz
translated by Robert Hass

The word faith means when someone sees
A dew – drop or a floating leaf,
and know that they are, because they have to be.

And even if you dreamed, or
closed your eyes and wished,

The world would still be what it was,  
and the leaf would still be carried down the river.

It means that when someone’s foot is hurt
By a sharp rock,

He also knows that rocks are here so they can hurt our feet.
Look, see the long shadow cast by the tree;
And flowers and people throw shadows on the earth:
What has no shadow has no strength to live.

Though the feather is said to be dearth of any worth in this next poem, the poem belies this. 

The Feather

by Olive Ward

I saw a feather in the air.
I clutched the air – it was not there!–
It had gone up so high.

And there the sun was shining through!
I never knew, while up it flew,
So bright a feather fly,

I said, I've have that feather bright
If it alight, the breeze despite.
So long I waited by,

Till it came down again to earth –
But what a dearth of any worth!
I laughed, and let it lie.

{source}

Lastly, though this is a poem for children, I think it reads just fine for all ages. If we have trouble in finding a faith ourselves, there is the consolation of knowing those who have an unshakeable one. 

A Feather from an Angel

by Brian Moses

Anton’s box of treasures held
a silver key and a glassy stone,
a figurine made of polished bone
and a feather from an angel.

The figurine was from Borneo,
the stone from France or Italy,
the silver key was a mystery
but the feather came from an angel.

We might have believed him if he’d said
the feather fell from a bleached white crow
but he always replied, “It’s an angel’s, I know,
a feather from an angel.”

We might have believed him if he’d said,
“An albatross let the feather fall,”
But he had no doubt, no doubt at all,
his feather came from an angel.

“I thought I’d dreamt him one night,” he’d say,
“But in the morning I knew he’d been there;
he left a feather on my bedside chair,
a feather from an angel.”

And it seems that all my life I’ve looked
for that sort of belief that nothing could shift,
something simple yet precious as Anton’s gift,
a feather from an angel.