Sunday, January 10, 2010

A Snowflake

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A traveling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem


The thoughts of Emily Dickinson went unnoticed during her 19th century lifetime. Her poems were rejected by the Atlantic Monthly in 1862, and from that rejection she believed that the public didn’t like her work, but she continued to write unpublished poetry in her father’s house until she died at the age of fifty-five. Her poetry is as large, as her world was small; her verses are brief, but they send a message of connection that is front and center in her world. The emotion she uses to express her reality is filled with the awareness that life is an experience that should be expressed with overflowing feelings of being one with all manifested forms of consciousness. To her the cloud is just as alive as the snowflake, and the wind is a voice of nature expressing consciousness in an extremely sensitive way. To Emily life is a pot filled with diversity that bubbles over with energy, which creates a brew that drips through the cracks of separation and forms an everlasting bond of simplicity that appreciates itself in its own awareness.

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