To Emily Dickinson

You kept your poems  

Secreted in a drawer. 

Of a desk, or a dresser. 

I forget which I was taught. 

It was a very long time ago. 

The classroom was warm, 

I was drowsy, the window alluring. 

But I do remember being told, 

“She kept her poems in a drawer.” 

I do not think I dreamed it. 

But I never understood  

Why you would keep 

Your poems secreted  

In a drawer, desk or dresser. 

Until perhaps now. 

They were, I imagine, 

Poems to yourself. 

Desperate or simply brave 

Efforts to capture  

Those ephemeral callings 

From deep within  

Or unimaginably distant 

And anchor them  

With pen upon a page. 

Born in beauty 

Upon a second glance 

You gave in to  

Fear or reluctance. 

Perhaps they were 

Not good enough. 

And so you hid them, 

In a drawer of some type. 

Today we put them 

In a cloud. 

.