autumn rain

it's raining hard.
before we went for a walk, I lit a fire in the studio

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.


XIII, from 'The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson',  (Barnes&Noble, 2003)

looking at my world through a stone

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