If you were coming in the fall,
I’d brush the summer by,
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman’s Land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine, should be
I’d toss it yonder, like a rind,
And take eternity.

But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the goblin bee
That will not state its sting.

Emily Dickinson

This is one of my favorite poems. I don’t know why it’s on my mind so today. Maybe I’m subconsciously waiting on something.

Hmm…a poetic thought, indeed.

With love, Malorie