At
Dickinson's Grave
Never
idle, nursing,
baking prize bread, sewing
unprized poems in neat homemade
packets,
here her
scribbled changes,
slanting light to subtle
shade; here her needle, here and here
her tears.
She went
about life like
Ulysses in the cave
morning noon and after sounding
No One
No One
for a name. Who
would have guessed that chance
would bring so many to her stone,
named right?
Return to the front page of this issue:
Amaze Vol.
3, No. 1 Spring
& Summer 2004
Go to the
Poets & Authors page for the poet's
biographical sketch and email link.
These poems are Copyright © 2004 by Ida Fasel.
