For Emily Dickinson
Do great poets feel the way we feel?
Do they suffer, bleed and cry?
Transcendent, almost godlike,
They flutter upon the printed page with the grace of angels on felt-tipped wings,
Metaphors flowing from their pens like daisies,
Covering hillsides of emotion with their perfect blossoms of celestial light.
As mortals, we can only worship these great poets from below the mountain tops where they now rest,
Their Olympian words inspiring generations, untouched by death and time.
But Emily, I wonder,
If hope truly is the thing with feathers,
Then might not I, with my stumbling words and my imperfect human form, dare to fly a little, too?
Rosalind Resnick
May 2, 2017
Do great poets feel the way we feel?
Do they suffer, bleed and cry?
Transcendent, almost godlike,
They flutter upon the printed page with the grace of angels on felt-tipped wings,
Metaphors flowing from their pens like daisies,
Covering hillsides of emotion with their perfect blossoms of celestial light.
As mortals, we can only worship these great poets from below the mountain tops where they now rest,
Their Olympian words inspiring generations, untouched by death and time.
But Emily, I wonder,
If hope truly is the thing with feathers,
Then might not I, with my stumbling words and my imperfect human form, dare to fly a little, too?
Rosalind Resnick
May 2, 2017
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