Poetry

"Emily's Garden: A Tapestry of Words and Blooms" I was reared in the garden, you know, plants growing in Emily Dickinson's conservatory, a constant source of inspiration and companionship. My plants grow beautifully, at eleven I declared, tending them year-round, in my father's conservatory, crossing the floor to stand in the Spice Isles. Picking up stems and stamens, as hollyhocks leave their clothes around, I work to make magic happen. My mother, the gardener, instilled love, nurturing roses and sensitive plants, delicious ripe figs, a great rarity. Botany courses, herbarium collection, 400 specimens labeled with Latin names, familiarity with my natural surroundings. Shrubs, vines, annuals, perennials, bulbs, a great variety of flowering plants, long beds filling the main garden. Attuned to the weather, changing seasons, bees, flies, and birds among my plants, observations woven into countless poems. Thunderstorm rocks the grass, unhooking leaves, dust scooping