Winter under cultivation
Is as arable as Spring
Emily Dickinson
---------
I try to pay my dues:
only choose, report the news
which – quantum-swift –
shifts, undercuts, bemuses:
fantasies, catastrophes
and deep drum beats
that baffle heart and nose
and feet and mind:
nothing’s ever as I’d thought
to find it. I stir at slants
of winter light, and purple
fall, and ballsy summer,
and have faced some
strange bright swings
of spring. Perception
turns them into thing.
Nothing rises, stoops to notice
one iota of their float and sting
except what stumbles,
dives through my surprised
near-sighted eyes.
.
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