Emily
and her
Poetry

Going to sleep, I cross my hand on my chest. They will place my hands like this. It will look as though I am flying into myself. - Bill...

The first story I ever write is a bright crayon picture of a dancing tree, the branches tossed by island wind. I draw myself standing...

Not because of victories I sing, having none, but for the common sunshine, the breeze, the largess of the spring. Not for victory but for...

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet...