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Hello dear readers. I am back from my trip and still thinking about what it means to be in places where ancestors we chose—those who lived before us who have made our lives so meaningful in different ways—lived, worked, loved, and died. I was able to spend an hour writing in Emily Dickinson’s room, and I still can’t stop thinking about being in the same space where those incredibly stunning poems came to life through her hand. That the mirror hanging over her dresser once held her gaze, as it held mine when I walked out to leave. Where does all of a life ever go? I can’t believe that she isn’t still there, writing—it feels like she must be.
So as I work on the next post, I wanted to share a link to a poem of my own that was recently published at Sky Island Journal. Each contributor is listed, and a download of their work is available when you click on their link.
Leaving you with views of the gorgeous oak tree that is original to the Dickinson house, having survived hurricanes in the 1930s that felled many of its neighboring original trees. The sound of the breeze and the cicadas among the branches is not something I’ll soon forget.