Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Walk
for Emily Dickinson
She keeps calling to blame the bees that do not hide from comfort, or from pain.
In the middle of blue skies I see a cloud so old it wants to sail to Timbuktu, to Timbuktu and rain.
No time is soon enough for calling, calling. She’s not at home, she left.
Where is Eden? Is there a hammock there? Can we sing and never cut a paper tree?
From the top it almost looks like fancy food, fancy food brushing the palate.
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