For Emily Dickinson

she was writing for ghosts for the
clocks in the hall or someone else's staircase.
not at all thought the neighbors of anything

she said except that it was strange
while she only dreamed of
how to arrange words, thoughts, feelings

so beautifully, elegantly

not to be met with such disdain in even
the smallest of tasks, gossiped about
by even the rains perhaps she would have

smiled to herself, certainly
by the satin denizens  she commemorated

and even mocked at in a later age by Billy Collins
in a ribald poem all the rage, a century plus removed.
how could she have deserved a doom like this

I question but I keep it to myself.
and feel her momentary presence
in my room by the bookshelves

where I'm learning to spell her out
a little, I think and wish oh wish her well
the bride the bride

of Poetry itself in this or any other Day
(I hope to catch
her bouquet...)

mary angela douglas 16 february 2016