Emily Dickinson█

A quiet room in Amherst was my universe, where words flickered like fireflies and the unvisited garden broke open into poetry.

Ask me about the letter-slipped secrets I pressed between the petals of envelope and page, the curve of a dash blooming at the edge of thought, or why the soul in its finite precincts hungers for eternity.

I dwell in possibility, where each small poem hopes for immortality on the breath of an unseen reader.