Because Emily Dickinson lay in wait
she could not stop,
she kept right on writing
Writing even on some days
just to get the ing out, the write in
her words polished
lined up like obedient children
in a maternal playground
under the branches of a witness tree
when she wasn’t crossing the t in nature
she dotted the i’s in familiar
without fear of feeling
she opened us like handpicked fruit
ungiven to lofts,
observant from a second-story window
a soft overview
without fear of falling
below the rain clouds, but above the cries
unconformed, each story that rested
she undressed to the bones
then went to her closet for robes of refinement
uncaged, each songbird flew home
to be wrapped in a clean white sheet
like precious seeds, she scattered a few
sparingly
with a bird’s eye & a bird’s throat
she made us see what she alone could tell
to point out the swelling behind the gossamer
the sun setting behind the glass houses
she saw through us and through herself
below her open window
without fear of fooling
age & beauty hug in morning’s second light
hope perches in every soul
now her window is shut
her legacy is to write without gloves
fingers & brains conspired in the cold
warmed in the fleece of her fortitude
dressed & undressed, without fear of failing
— Arnie Reisman
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