Morning Glory


Tell the truth, but tell it slant. Emily Dickinson

Born, bloom, die

All in the one day

Blur a glass darkly,

Drifting away.


A physician’s proof of death,

Marked by a girlhood’s fleeting fancy,

A garden romance

A moonlit dance

With Chopin playing lightly

A nocturne.

And no rectangular wooden box

To be seen.


Instead a thing with feathers

Whistles through her head

Across the broad Atlantic

Drift the dead.


I come to share a little fun,

Exchange raised eyebrows of expectancy,

Like your ravaging femininity.


Vanishing point ►


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Wed 6th Nov 2019 21:57

I adore her stuff John

Hers was the first book of poetry I ever brought
'The complete works of Emily Dickinson'

She was almost the poet you are.

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