For all my years studying literature, I never could understand Emily Dickinson. I never could “get” it. But more importantly, I couldn’t hold it, live it, nor carry it – remember the words of Naomi Shehab Nye?
But I do now. Every October when the leaves fall and the persimmon trees in my backyard bear fruit ripe for picking, I turn to Dickinson for an understanding – not comfort, not kind words. Just an understanding.
And I’m sad that I do understand her words now.
The Bustle in a HouseThe Morning after DeathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon Earth –The Sweeping up the HeartAnd putting Love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil Eternity –
The last Night that She Lived
It was a Common Night
Except the Dying–this to Us
Made Nature different
We noticed smallest things–
Things overlooked before
By this great light upon our Minds