Emily Dickinson ~ Telling it true, but slanted

Emily will take her cedar box of hidden poems throwing them on a Sou’ Westerly breeze in a New England Spring — They will be snatched and fly daring, dainty flutter byes across the stretching continent the Great Plains and New Frontiers — The Sun — rising in ribbons Mountains dripping scarlet sunsets vast Miles of Evening Sparks — as the Hemispheres come home to early Night — they’ll be read by lonely cowboys drinking whisky, in the sagebrush Indian braves campfire smoking Sung in Saloons by husky-voiced dames can-can dressed and a whole lotta grit and gumption. Emily, lightened of her load unknotted the Skein of Misery — Universe unstitched — in this moment of escape Landscape will listen — Shadows will hold their breath until the words are spoken. Emily’s skipping down the stairs of that morbid, cold wintered house with its bare Slants of Light — rushing out the door throwing herself on the Open day — Telling True, but slanted.

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