Emily and Walt
When Emily was born
She didn't cry.
Her large bright eyes
Of no worldly color
Terrified the midwife.
Walt wasn't born.
One day he walked out
Of a stand of birches
On Long Island, already
Thirteen and singing.
Emily wasn’t a recluse:
She went for long walks
On the piano, trudging
Through the snow
Drifts of the keys.
Walt couldn’t leave
Leaves of Grass alone.
He kept worrying the poems
Until he died, though
He didn’t die, either.