By: Emily Dickinson
It’s all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
I’m giving it everything I have, and somehow- it just doesn’t seem to be enough. But, for whom? For the world? For the stories I dream that remain untold? For the love who’s wounds are still so fresh- bleeding. Perhaps for those who cast judgment like a tree in the sunlight casts shadows? Or am I the only one measuring myself against Aphrodite? Trying desperately to make that fish climb the tree, and breaking a little more each time he falls to the ground- gasping for breath. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe I am the leader of the bullies against myself. Maybe all I’m bringing...is already enough. Maybe...
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