Ode to Emily Dickinson

She dealt her pretty words like blades they shone,
this paper I clutch resembles your ghost–
Whose pooling eyes show life, immortality–
The place in which the bobolinks will sing.

Lady in white I find your absence long
You left us all–far too young–so deeply
ran the length of your being within me, too.
I read that your funeral was quite lovely

“Carry me through a field of buttercups.”
I carry you through eternity, too.