I started reading Emily Dickinson in April, when spring was the only fathomable season, to celebrate the poetry month. Today, a weekend away from the official beginning of the summer, I have finished my book of Emily Dickinson, all 1775 poems. Summer is my least favorite time of the year when the humidity outside matches the one in my mind, intensifying the stickiness I actually feel. There are people and other living things to contend with everywhere. So although I am kind of impressed with myself for having read all of Dickinson poems, coming to the end of that gray tome is quite sad.
The poems were so effective that just reading them would make me sneeze. But my sinus is slowly chilling out, and I am shedding my knitted hand warmers. I guess it’s time to stop reading about the raiment of nature and taunting eternity and get into my sluggish summer reading.
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