I never cared for the beloved poem Hope by Emily Dickinson, although she is a favored poet of mine. I think her words fit for these two images, though; one is a tragic reminder that death is all-too-real while the other is a tender display of bonding between two doves.
... these are all words that come to mind when I think of being alive.
What does being alive mean to you?
A Solitary Farewell
Soulmates, Free To Fly
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.
*Special thanks to the artist BERNS on RedBubble.com for use of her beautiful photograph Up On The Roof. You can browse Berns' gallery here: http://www.redbubble.com/people/berns