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.
I like how my mind is stretched