An Ode to Emily Dickinson

An Ode to Emily Dickinson

She sits in her Room—

The birds cannot Sing in a place so

Bare, and Empty—

Confined by alabaster Walls—

All that fill the Air

Are the Ideas, the Words

And she must Catch them, quickly—before—

They leave her, and Escape—

Through the open Window

Where the World waits—

Beckoning, Singing, Calling to the

Words. But she Calls them too—

And they heed her Voice—

For her Voice sings of Mystery

And Death, and the warm Winds

Of Time and Change—

She is a Mistress of the Words—

They use her to Come into the World—

Her Key can turn the Lock, and set them Free

But she is left Behind—