Emily
When Dickinson was born, it was as if
A square of light appeared in the darkness.
And because there was a window, a house
Figured it should build itself around it.
In the woods, trees fell, were sawn, planed, nailed.
Because the house was alone, a village
Grew up overnight to keep it company.
Yes, churches. Yes, blacksmiths and bakers. Past
The village was the nineteenth century —
Its iced-over roads, taciturn horses,
Rotund orators, yellowing banknotes.
In the midst of it all, that square of light
Floated, throwing its dark cross cynically
On the bright snow, while in her cradle lay
A little girl with immense black eyes.
1 Comment
No posts
I like how my mind is stretched