To Emily Dickinson

If Emily—Ms. Dickinson—could pen fresh lines of verse today; what, I wonder, would she say? Where would she even begin? How will today change her verse—I ponder? Would the Lady in White still write of books, — those “frigates” of the rich imagination that find their way in the grooves and the nooks of her most literary creation? Would she still ponder the tried relevance of Life and Dying—of Mortality? Or what of the strange nearness of distance imposed by our hi-tech? —what Irony! No doubt, she’d pen that though Facebook’s fresh Faces seem happy, they’re still empty in some places—.