Thinking about the thing with feathers that Emily spoke of so long ago
as she sat, alone, in her curtained room
Did she know about all she missed
A lover's breath upon her neck as they become one
It's possible to know what you've never had
Don't I know about that thing with feathers, taking flight against all odds
Did she dare to dream of love, the touch of a hand upon her heart
alone in her curtained room, so long ago
Do I dare believe in that thing with feathers
alone in this rented room,
as I contemplate Emily Dickenson
on an unseasonably cold and wet Tuesday afternoon in May
Yes, I dare
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