There are That Resting Rise

Upstairs I think, image sleeping under rags
and oak-dust still, I see how they
sang look this one - blossom swelling with May
she’s dressed in clouds, seen sameness of an egg
in her gesture, first leg-in-how and-leg
in when, she seems far from sleepy this soft day,
scented knees and elbows in tones of gray
in worn-edge-dust bleeding under rags.
That hidden here does not agree,
no petaled footpaths prove where to go
to relearn secrets of the color ‘no’
whose liquid lock and its ruling key
live in her voice now steady, fair
turning leaves - lifting time – the old song’s heir.

R.Coll
Title - E. Dickenson