I've just come off teaching Emily Dickinson's poetry in two-hour seminar segments over eight weeks--and her art has done to me what it always does to me: It's broken my brain.

Join me, Mark Scarbrough, as I explore the poem on which I ended those eight weeks. It's a wildly understated statement, wry and winking, that truth might be derived ecologically, geographically, even horticulturally. What if the self is not what it is but mostly where it is? What if you're made up of where you're from, more than what you think? And not where you're front in terms of economics or education. Where you're from in terms of the flowers and birds you've lived with as a child (and maybe as an adult, too).