Each ruinous nation
rejects finally even the fallen tree;
Above the skies stares salvation
where still the angels sing.
Where were you when she was born?
You were a tree, a river, and finally a tear.
Whose lips were those that were shorn?
Shaven notes from the throat so none could hear.
This dream awakes you, but you still sleep.
Outside the cold wind sings her favorite winter song.
One can feel something moving beneath the Solstice deep:
Eyes that speak of staying and, yet, in their golden radiance, of moving on.
©2011 Stephen K. Pickering
“Her Face Was in a Bed of Hair”
Her face was in a bed of hair,
Like flowers in a plot-
Her hand was whiter than the sperm
That feeds the sacred light.
Her tongue more tender than the tune
That totters in the leaves_
Who hears may be incredulous,
Who witnesses, believes.
©1880 Emily Dickinson