Treatise on Emily Dickinson


89

From us, she has wandered one and a half centuries
Her tarrying, for unusual lyrical speech
Unknown in wilderness, preserving open-poems

To walk with words as Ethereal feet
No eye remembers her white-dressed
Wit, we only know our time of the present –

We took the mystery, of her rhymes that
Turned themselves inside-out
From us, she put away her ghosts

Her frantic stanzas, sunsets sworn
In short muse that hath too long a date
To talk with the Sun and Springtime’s bees

Poet of poets, woman of Massachusetts!
How many times can I read thy brief Divinity?
Alphabets of sublime artistry,
Heart as much a pen, as any page’s soul.