Emily Dickinson's Window
As a time traveler did she
Wait each day to be called,
Or did she go rushing headlong
Into paradise?
Were there days of emptiness,
Of avoidance,
Or "Am I completely mad?"
Sitting in one's room was
Perhaps an acceptance
of now,
Just this, just the muse-heart
of creation.
Isn't that a proper purpose?
To sit as Pascal and Kafka suggest,
To sit alone in our room,
The room of true self--
No need to do a thing;
Ecstacy rolls in with each breath,
Filling the self with no-self,
The no-self of pure creativity;
Makes children of us all.
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