Twist the glass knob –
a black door
on a blacker house.
Bear the pall
and throw your shroud
‘gainst the oak.
Let it slip,
silent,
crumpled ‘midst
creaking footsteps
in the darkening hall.
Our long season,
this season of death,
does whisper
into the bluing ears
of each and all.
Let us meet
in the black house,
clad
in midnight robes
and covered
by ebon shawls.
Bear me through
the black door.
It is my time.
I will answer Emily’s call.
©️ 2019.
Ms. Dickinson is on my mind.
