My Emily Dickinson
by Rebecca Sturgeon
Particularly annoying were the number of calls
expected of women in the Homestead.
The constant placement of self in society,
all hours and all welcomed --
scissors cutting away strands of the precious time
until the pale scalp showed.
Is it any wonder she sheltered in place
with illness and selective domesticity?
Bake bread, tend the garden --
neither dust nor visit.
Away from the frequency of polite conversation,
allow the mind to wander, pause, consider, resettle.
Rise like bread on the breaths of unseen organisms.
Spread like the garden over unattended earth.
Rebecca Sturgeon loves how words go. She writes to explore the process and works to instill a love of the creative process with other people. She lives in Kentucky, where the beautiful landscape is an endless source of delight and inspiration. She regularly shows her work at rebeccasturgeon.substack.com