I keep an ottoman in my heart exclusively for you. You come so seldom. Your aroma stays long after. How exact absence is. Breathe in it the yes that gives way. Circles fleck the lake as lavender, eggshell blue, a just visible scarlet fade from the sky— a breeze wrinkles the water— a whistle, a bell— ovals of feeding— waves like mice scrabble, rest— lamplight there and there. ____ This is one of a suite of poems written under the spell of Emily Dickinson's late, inexhaustible, utterly hermetic letters. The title is a sentence from one of them. |