For Emily Dickinson,2 Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

perhaps she raised her small jeweled flags of words
in a stiff breeze so that the bees and flowers were confused at first and the red clover
in the vast meadows she lived in, meaning her soul.
and the stars over New England sighed on being told
by distaff cherubs
she is beyond you now.
as for men on earth, who knew that she was scarcely here
an inhabitant at all
except as a gentle anomalie and almost as out of sight
as the ends of being barrett browning might have said.
if she could have,
now her self sown flags are planted in eternity and they stream on, transmogrified not a little.
and sometimes in our minds while reading her
we almost hear, we think her astute voice and clear and
a stiff breeze enters our room
and we who have not yet died
neither for truth nor beauty yet adjusted in our tombs
can still aver and aver with her
toward which path for us, as well
the implacable mystic horses heads are turned.
mary angela douglas 28 january 2022