Winter Morning at Windows, Reading Emily Dickinson


Everything the color of the fog.

Slender branches of weeping cherry

curve, supple in a frozen season.

The soft-white orb of a sun slants

through the gauze,

hints of a world outside this.

You imagine the explicit blue

above, the misting of the earth

a white illusion.... Slowly perceptible

in the softening, clear water

drips from trees and fences,

the deepened landscape clarifies

and lifts into azure.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.