Poem Beginning With A Line By Emily Dickinson
Death is a dialogue between the spirit and the dust—
a quiet discussion
rather than rambling chit-chat.
Soothing reminiscences
recalling the pros & cons
throughout mortal days
conclude with a brief analysis
of The Life—
as if Doctor Freud himself
fielded questions.
The dust squalls like a baby
asking for the kind of forgiveness
only a lover might bestow
as the spirit smiles
listening to these contrite sobs
with the freed soul
looming ebulliently above—
yodeling in the wind.