If you find

no poem on

your doorstep

in the morning,

no paper, no knock on your door,

and your life is poorly edited

but no broken dashes

or injured meter

and you don’t wear white

dresses late in life

embroidered with violet

flowers on the collar;

nor do you have

burials daily

across main street,

and no one whispers

in your ear, Emily Dickinson-

you feel alone-

but not reclusive-

the sand lady

still sleeping in your eyes-

wiping your tears away-

if you find

no poem on

your doorstep-

you know your not

from New England.