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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—.


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The following comments are for "Sonnet: to Emily Dickinson"
by Apple

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