By Emily Dickinson
It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain —
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again —
It reaches to the Fence —
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces —
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack — and Stem —
A Summer’s empty Room —
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them —
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen —
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts —
Denying they have been —
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I'm watching Christopher Walken chomp scenery as the most flamboyant pirate ever in Peter Pan Live (getting his hook polished, getting the first on his ass blown out, singing with a crew that must have been kicked out of Penzance for too much simulated sodomy, excuse me, leap frog -- seriously, there are more stereotypical moves in this than there were in La Cage Aux Folles, though I really miss Jason Isaacs' Mr. Darling anyway), and I don't have a lot to report besides chilly weather, bunnies, chores, and an article I'm not much in the mood to write. So have some Scott's Run scenery:
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