Because the Emily Dickinson
Poem Was Only "Nice" and
Omitted the Honeysuckle.

(for Moiraine)

Laurel always types on her laptop.
When there is enough space
between the rainstorms
to let the grass grow dry,
she settles her back against the tree
on the patch of grass in front of
her own room.  One time

I came out and spread a big, blanket 
not so far away from Laurel's room
that I couldn't smell the honeysuckle
that grows over her window.

I lay on my belly reading Emily Dickinson,
wishing I wasn't reading Emily Dickinson,
while Laurel tapped away at her laptop,
dancing her fingers lightly on the keys and smiling
at the end of each sentence,
and asking about phrases and words.
"Should I use 'typical' or 'conventional?' "
I don't know, so 
I tell her I am going 
to write a poem about her
in the style of Emily Dickinson
(because I don't want to be reading her for nothing).
She smiled, and pause, and observed
"I love the way honeysuckle smells."

I wrote the poem.  She read it.
She snaps the laptop closed
and says
"the poem is nice,
but where is the honeysuckle?"

Well, Laurel, here is the honeysuckle,
but I can't make a meaning out of it
in the style of Emily Dickinson.
You can't have both,
so choose one.

                       B.