Letter to Emily Dickinson

Trapped in a white world
by nothing but choice

a space not universal
grown and cultivated

by your breath on the candle flame

music that rose up from the cellos
of the earth and called us

in our night clothes
in the midst of the Sun God’s

eternal night

words born of the silence
in the Sistine Chapel

sparkle of the sun flecked meadow
mist of the velvet forest

I pluck and bestow my heart

a pink petal on a white rose
speaking only to you

like the sound of the rain
typing this epistle to you

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Heirs to the Earth

I want to do the work of bees,
or grass growing in the field
even winter’s hungry wolverine

Labors of passion, because they are:
Bees
Grass
Wolverines

No choice but to be
givers, not takers
Heirs to the earth

When the sun crosses my face
each day, I shall not think
I don’t want to make honey, grow, be.

There is only this as far as I know.
It must be more than dreaming, and
soon, nature’s fuel will find me
right where it left off forty years ago.