A Thought for Emily's Sleep

 

Your precious feet were there once, pressed against the

familiar floorboards, where your poems suddenly appeared to you, flashing

like lightning. I wonder which window they came in? 

Here's a thought: you were like that window. You

caught all that light inside yourself and let it

shine back out through your hands. You were the only one the wind was

 

being lovely for, up in the nearby trees, fluffing

out all the pretty leaves like a bird showing off its wings.

You were the one the rushing stars were spinning 

faster and faster for, to get your focused attention for themselves,

to look into those eternal eyes and dream again and again.

I'm sure the occasional rain only wanted to be

 

closer to your inside movements and was willing to

settle for just about anything on your windows, if that was

all there was left in the world for it. 

And then there's that little bitty writing desk, it

fit no one else like it fit your frame, your

lamp like a mighty little lighthouse sending its flickering

 

beams against the shadowy walls to warn off any

incoming ships of fools. I am one of those

fools, make no mistake, Emily. All of your flowers 

must have loved the time of your coming to

water them, to lift their heads in admiration, your

fingers in the dirt around their roots like God's own anointed

 

worms, digging, tending, healing. That absence must have been

felt through each and every garden in the world, for centuries afterwards,

I know it is in mine. And yet there 

is still a tender, comforting response happening even today for

the constant reading of your amazing letters to the world.  

I should know. This one's my own letter home to you.