Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman Go Bicycling in March
Afoot and light-headed I take to the open road,
Unhealthy, coughing, the world of snow before me,
The long white path before me leading wherever is plowed.
Hope is the thing with rubber tires
That perches in a snowdrift,
And hope has feathers, too,
If you run over a chicken during a whiteout.