I dreamed that Emily Dickinson took me for a walk.
She stopped to show me Autumn in the briny scent of pine cones
she placed one after another in my seeking hands.
We barely said a word.
She and I, two inward-turned observers
of vermilion-tinged changing leaves
I knew their colors without words.
I knew the ticklish, teasing breeze
that hinted iron chill but still held fleeting warmth.
My hair tingled with sensation.
Emily braided it with goldenrods.
She told me, her voice in the wind,
“Nothing Gold can Stay.”
I said, “Wait, isn’t that Robert Frost? Your own words say it better.”
She said nothing, but
cried salty raindrop tears.
I held her while the leaves blew
coming to rest on her crackly cheeks
She wept in my sticky, sap-splattered arms
Just once,
I may have saved her life.

3 thoughts on “A Walk with Emily

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