“This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me - ”
-- Emily Dickinson, #441
I opened up each windy vent;
my crumpled sword, I did unsheathe.
The workweek boggles our intent,
and Saturdays we’d fain repent
and breathe!
I mused upon this 2-day grant.
Just what had it rolled up its sleeve?
I mustered up a little chant:
“I will not rage, I will not rant!
I’ll seek reprieve!”
My mind was dim, my thoughts were scant.
To Friday’s cares they still would cleave.
I turned to Emily – my aunt,
my nurse, my Muse of Rhymes Aslant.
I hoped she’d give me leave
to borrow an unpotted plant
and see how much I could achieve
if long I thought on what it meant –
this lined and metered message sent
to me to ponder, chew and teethe.
I plunged into a lettered rent.
With fitful sighs my chest did heave,
and soon I broke into a pant:
“O Lady of Amherst, I am spent!
Upon your gnomic nuggets I must thieve!”