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Charlotte Ballard


To Emily Dickinson


Emily, your words breathe fire.
From simple words to grand designs-
Heaven drops, sweet nectar.
I propose a promise
To wear your words there
In a secret crevice
Where the Holly springs.

Weakly worn, slovenly tied.
I hold out my tattered offering
To fill the tired places
In both you and I.
Who knows, perhaps,
I'll meet you there
At that place where
Poets retire.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Edited: Monday, November 03, 2008

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