He was the stream and she the underbrush,
The rain that fell upon his upturned face.
She was the shadowed glade in evening’s hush
That, blotting out the sun, absorbed its grace.
She was the sea, and he the wavering shore—
The harvest moon that hung above her door.
A thousand stars crowded to hold one thought
When similes, comparisons were all
That she was left with after she was taught
That streams dry up, butt up against a wall
Where tangled roots are tripped upon in haste.
Sweet woodruff, poison ivy, interlaced.
For more from Sally Cook, and a bio, go here.
The painting, “White Garden, Emily Dickinson,” was created by the poet while a Wilbur Fellow in 1986.