for Emily Dickinson
So had the cloud wept itself out of being
Rain that tipped the trees of winter’s unbloom
So had the skies emeshed with a glittery wonder
Spiraled in purple throughout the childhood room
That dreams would come, a vertigo at the Poles
A rush of words stamping like horses of gold
A sign and a seal of more than was real
a music of starlight and stone.
mary angela douglas 27 december 2023
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