I Bowed to Worship Another…

I relished a trip to Amherst, Massachusetts, a few years ago with my family. A long-time writing heroine of mine, Emily Dickinson and I had an appointment. I could hardly wait to visit her childhoold home.

I consider Dickinson America’s best poet, exceeding the writings of  Frost, Whitman, Sandburg, and Emerson… even contemporary poets like Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, and Mark Strand… all of whom I adore. It just seems that no one comes close to the sharp insight and brilliance of Emily.

 Here’s the poem I wrote on that crisp autumn day in Amhert after visiting the home and grave of Emily Dickinson.

To Emily Dickinson

I saw the family

homestead, Emily, and 

gazed at the old white oak.

Hallowed stones carried me

through your garden

where an impassive

gardner purged the ground

of intruding weeds.

Your flowers’ fragrances mingled and

wafted on chilly autumn breeze,

enticing me to another generation.

I breathed deeply

the university air of Amherst.

Reverently, I touched your 

cold gravestone and

caressed your name engraved.

Nothing passed between us, Emily.

Your sweet, stinging words,

your life, your war with God

moved through my heart.

No spark of inspiration

illumined my lingering soul…

Turning to search,

I sensed the ever so slight

sweep of a scented garment–

a pierced hand–

and bowed to worship

Another.

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