speaking the spire

I have been back to reading Emily Dickinson. My vain resolution is that if I simply read 5 of her poems a day, I can get through the complete collection in a year. Try me.
She has a similar aesthetic sensibility to mine, though from a much simpler time, I am afraid. She worked in words, but called out imagery. She looked hard, she mused deeply and she took great courage from simple glimpses out in the natural world (landscape). Her hopes and her struggles were anchored, again and again in her childlike, sometimes whimsical trust in the Words of her unseen Father. I have actually been mining some of her apt phrases for titles of my own images. Here is one, “The Twilight Spoke the Spire”

Here is that whole poem, #1278

The Mountains stood in Haze—
The Valleys stopped below
And went and waited as they liked
The River and the Sky.

At leisure was the Sun—
His interests of Fire
A little from remark withdrawn—
The Twilight spoke the Spire,

So soft upon the Scene
The act of evening fell
We felt how neighborly a Thing
Was the Invisible.

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