“I dare not eat it, though I starve,—
My poignant luxury….”
~ Emily Dickinson
So clear, it almost hurts: so blue, so green—
that line hurtling into the distance and pulling
like a thick brush-stroke everything that lives
at ground-level: that’s how you’ve lifted me,
little chipped stone that’s traveled
from some far tributary. And the air
is cold, but the heavy clapper sounds the notes
of the bell like a heart hollowed for just this
purpose. But oh, what the bird sings is sweet-
sweet-sweet. And all these bitter years,
what releases is the same each time: mouth
like the warbler that has learned your name.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.