Pendragon
09-16-2007, 11:56 AM
Paper Packets
She kept them bound up
in string-tied packets;
little pieces of condensed emotion—
seen by few; read by even fewer.
Just a quiet, faded flower
with an eye far beyond
the simple, grey existence
that she had carved out for herself.
I grew up with her poetry.
It was required reading in English Class.
Often we would discuss just what she meant by
“Hope is the thing with feathers…”
Strange, is it not,
that all of her silent, simple life,
she kept all of her emotions in a shoe-box—
in packets tied with string,
and people couldn’t see beyond the thorns,
and smell the fragrant roses
in the little paper packets—
until their author passed away…
Dale Harris
© 9/9/97
For Emily Dickinson
She kept them bound up
in string-tied packets;
little pieces of condensed emotion—
seen by few; read by even fewer.
Just a quiet, faded flower
with an eye far beyond
the simple, grey existence
that she had carved out for herself.
I grew up with her poetry.
It was required reading in English Class.
Often we would discuss just what she meant by
“Hope is the thing with feathers…”
Strange, is it not,
that all of her silent, simple life,
she kept all of her emotions in a shoe-box—
in packets tied with string,
and people couldn’t see beyond the thorns,
and smell the fragrant roses
in the little paper packets—
until their author passed away…
Dale Harris
© 9/9/97
For Emily Dickinson