Here is a poem from me:

“Do not die

With your song still

On your lips”

I saw the yellow room,

the open bureau drawer

where Emily Dickinson’s poems

were found after her death,

each tightly rolled, like a child’s note,

tied in sets with string.

The room where Emily

pressed her foot soles

into oak floorboards

and her back against

the butter-colored wallpaper.

Here she tucked her knees into her chest,

listened for her sister’s lover,

and pined.

Then the stair she descended

to the foyer where she presented

Walt Whitman with a tiger lily.

Sable eyes and sable hair,

herself, a vision

dressed in white.

I saw the parlor

where she sat

separated from her guests

by a screen

so she would not

devour them.

I stepped over

a knee high stone wall

to crouch in the grass beside her grave:

an alter of little things,

messages placed

as if to tell a friend

too early gone

how grateful we were

for her company.

Silver trinkets

outfitted the poet for her afterlife:

a tiny boot, a teapot,

a bicycle, a bird

And fresh hand written notes

held down

with a white stone.