but you spend this Sunday with me,
on the October garden bench reading poems
from your small hand-sewn fascicles, never published,
but for here and now, where God
preaches and the sermon is never long.
This poem recalls – and borrows lines – from Emily Dickinson, whose poems I was reading this morning.
Emily Dickinson, poet of the interior life, poems,written quietly in a room of her own, often hand-stitched in small volumes, then hidden in a drawer, died without fame, only a few poems were published in her lifetime, then published with words altered by editors or publishers according to the fashion of the day.
The volume I’m reading, The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition, has 1,789 poems with Dickinson’s spelling, punctuation, and capitalization intact.