Dear Emily,

Emily Dickinson's manuscript of "A route of evanescence"

Why is it that I can pick up a volume of your poetry on any day, at any moment and read the perfect words? Late last night, I opened my Shambhala The Pocket EMILY DICKINSON  to this:

That first Day's Night had come -
And grateful that a thing
So terrible - had been endured -
I told my Soul to sing -


She said her Strings were snapt -
Her Bow - to Atoms blown -
And so to mend her - gave me work
Until another Morn -


And then - a Day as huge
As Yesterdays in pairs,
Unrolled its horror in my face -
Until it blocked my eyes -


My Brain - begun to laugh -
I mumbled - like a fool -
And tho' tis Years ago - that Day -
My Brain keeps giggling - still.


And Something's odd - within -
That person that I was -
And this One - do not feel the same -
Could it be Madness - this?

(c.1862)

With most of your poetry, my initial reading is one of recognition. I suck in my breath. I understand. But then my eye, a lens, is humidified, clouds over and blurs. You recede, pulling, your words like a thread I can't keep hold of.

Reverently,
Elizabeth