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

Things No One Should Ever Say

I confess:
I want to be a poet
a writer
someone who writes poems
for a good part of her day
who attends workshops
who starts a writer’s group
who publishes
who is known in poetry circles
I confess:
I am not just doing this for me
I am doing it for you
for everyone
and not only that, but
I want you to like it
maybe even love it
quote it
memorize it
read it
at your grandmother’s funeral
I want it to soak into your skin
and bones, and melt into your
marrow so it is forever
part of me now part of you