Sandra Frye

Fears of Emily Dickinson 

If my bedroom window looked out upon tombs

like Emily’s did instead of on hydrangea blooms 

and a peeling birch tree, I too would be afraid to 

leave, seeing a cemetery with names I grieve.

All those dead people interwoven with sorrow;

those who are dying now, those who’ll

be gone tomorrow, immortalized in poetry.

Last summer I invited a finch to rest

his yellow self against my screen,

and for a moment he preened feathers 

on my window sill.

Birds wish me no harm, but I stay in my room 

looking out at the world like Emily did.

It’s rather cozy; from the safety of my desk

I can see the birch tree put on its first spring, 

green as sea glass;

watch the seasons change outside my house,

a golden yellow in the fall, branches—black

silhouettes in snow.

There are things beyond my brain to comprehend,

I’m sure Emily felt the same: “an element of blank”:

buildings coughing soot from smokestacks, vehicles—

cars or horses speeding past—so much noise—

and sleet freezing on the ground, everything

so tragical.

That finch sat only a moment on my ledge;

his black-beaded eyes seemed to recognize me,

and then he took himself away, unafraid—perhaps

I’ll see him again in May.

NOTE: The house on North Pleasant Street where Emily Dickinson lived between the ages of 10 and 25 was built next to a graveyard, with her bedroom window facing the cemetery. Five of her school friends died of consumption and were buried in it during her time there. —from The Guardian 22 Jul 2008