Ah Emily

I woke this morning with a clear head, bright white snow outlining the trees, and gloriously, a walk to shovel.  It may not be as exciting as the winter wears on.  Still -- today it is.  And -- a poem by Emily Dickinson greeted me in my e-mail -- #505.  When she died, I understand she left poems on scraps of paper in her bedroom.  Quite a picture.  Ah Emily.

Ah Emily

You left scraps of paper 

With so many words.

The ones who cared

The ones who knew

Collected up your poems

When you died,

Put them in order,

Named them with their first line,

Gave them each a number.

Ah Emily

I picture you in your bedroom

Surrounded

In poetry.

It poured through you,

Drifted around you

Like the snow,

It holds the ground

This morning,

Bright in the sun.

Ah Emily

They shoveled your walk

Named and numbered

Each flake

After you died.

Ah

Emily.