Hope is a Thing with Feathers, by Emily Dickinson

Hope is a thing with feathers

that perches in the soul

and sings the tune without the words

and never stops at all.

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 extremety, it asked a thing of me.

***

When I first started learning this, I was carrying it around on a little slip of paper in my pocket.

I was at the doctor's office with the kids, or maybe just Archer. It was checkup for the doctor to sign off on, a Scout requirement before summer camp. He needed shots, I offered to distract him by telling him the poem. But it wasn't in my brain strong enough, and I blanked. He got the shot without any of my poetry reciting expertise. That was early in the year.

Later that summer, I was in a triathlon. It was my second tri with Mary, but this time I was on my own. Swimming, I made it across the lake. Hopped on the bike. It was probably really hot. Found myself trudging up a hill. It felt so long. Now that I think about it, it probably wasn't. But there I was, chugging away and reciting this to myself with every push of the pedal.