Tuesday, December 24, 2013

The Thing With Feathers

Belle of Amherst
Palest frailest mayflower
I think your window 
Must have been cut
From heaven’s crystal city

What wonders flowed
Oh what strains 
Of celestial light 
Were magnified, found focus
Through that glass 

The bird of sunlight
Delivered to your room
Each morning's revelation
Clutched in its beak
A burning coal

And nightly the moon
Bloomed into your room
A flower whose secrets
Were whispered only
Into your lonely dreams

And  not that you could 
Or would ever tell
But I wonder if you watched
The Angels keep
Your window clean

Or perhaps you saw 
God himself wiping off 
Summer’s dust and sweat
And winter’s frozen tears
From your little portal into Paradise

(top) Mural of Emily Dickinson at West Cemetary. (above) Painting of Emily Dickinson by William Rock and Calligraphy by Huang Xiang. (below) Philip Jenks amazing tattoo.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

-Emily Dickinson

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