Emily Dickinson

She rose with dawn
And walked down lawns
Drenched in dew
To gather—Thoughts—

Her white dress was a palette
And as a squirrel hoards
Acorns—she collected
Images—her Pearls—

Scarlet maple, silver frost,
Green crocus sleeve—
Lace of apple blossom,
White clover fleece.

She barred her door for Winter
But still her summer haunts
Emerged as stowaways—
Intruding—like the Moth.

So, seamlessly
As Spider—spinning silk—
She conjured Images
With pen and ink.

Her skeins of poetry
Snag me still—
The crack of river’s Thaw
That startles like a whip.

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