and with soft, scented skin flushed pink
from a beating heart. And she moved.
She spoke, laughed, walked under sky acres.
Then immortalized inadequately in stone or words.
Crafted but cold, stationary, here and gone.
You were sitting just two rows ahead
at the poetry reading, listening so intently
that you didn’t notice your sweater slipped
off your shoulder. I noticed. Soft skin
perfumed by a sonnet made of air.
“Form ever follows function,” said the architect.
The shape from intended function or purpose.
Long-necked giraffes reaching the tallest of leaves.
The poem beating with its 5-7 heartbeat.
Our life evolving into an unimagined design.
(“Form ever follows function” is credited to American architect Louis Henry Sullivan.)
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.
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.