Instant Warmth*

 

An Awe— if it should be like that—
touches my forehead now and then,
a feather from the Whippoorwill
a furtive look you know as well
of Robins in the trundle bed
unbraiding in the sun—
an instant’s width of warmth disclosed
with specimens of song
and yet, how still the landscape stands.

 

 

 

*Source texts of this Cento include the following poems by Emily Dickinson
(listed in order of appearance):

“Heaven” has different Signs—to me
A loss of something ever felt I
A feather from the Whippoorwill
An altered look about the hills
A Murmur in the Trees—to note
A narrow fellow in the grass
A door just opened on a street
Before you thought of spring
A Lady red—amid the Hill

 

 

 

 

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