21st Century Emily Dickinson

What penance is to be paid            
for dropping the large brown eggs                
of your eyes—              
their content saturating              
the busted carton of your cheeks                
         
And all my childhood horses        
and all my imaginary playmates        
can't put them back together again;            
         
I can only try to explain          
               
Blood is the life;              
I feel mine in these Sacred lands—              
each spilled drop fertilizing                
a blade of grass                
               
My Heart is a Mother Elm                
embedded in these woods:                
my fingers rooted in past lives;              
my breath warm with memories                
               
These mountains bear my shadow              
and that of our Father's people             
Perhaps somewhere in Time              
I'll belong here again                
               
Yet, how can I look at you and pretend                
when Poetry is pulling my Blood              
into the open flow              
of its own veins                
               
I do not fear solitude;              
but, yearn instead              
for its peaceful existence              
from the world                
               
You are strong and brave—              
have kindled my being              
that I not freeze    
in my winter season                
               
I could write here forever              
in this glade of wilderness          
watching you fish, smiling at me—                
were it not for Destiny              
drawing my name                
               
I promised you an answer              
when I was ready—          
it never had to be said;           
             
but, the question you asked                
altered the existence between us;              
and, I've never been good                
at permanence anyway              
                
Truth is all I have to my name;                
drink it from these cupped lips              
partake in this aching tenderness    
between us;          
departures are never easy—          
even when blessed               
               
I have not traversed Time              
to surrender my own judgment              
to the ordinary Life                
               
My Intuition is born from innocence;                
it follows the Poem                
into Future's dark recesses              
I fail to understand, but accept              
as absolute                  
               
You have always been with me              
even now,              
in the taking of my leave              
Love travels with me               
while another makes her way        
to lie at your side in age                
               
I glance back once at you watching . . .             
but there will never be any regret                
or loneliness in poetic verse—                
               
only a 21st Century Emily Dickinson              
contentedly alone at her writing desk                
~