Emily Dickinson is my main man. These are among her latterday poems on scraps.
Smelled the clover at birth
garlic when she died
smelled the clover at birth
so spicy as it fades
The rhythm is a V V V I harmony in a slow samba, with a bridge:
Barking dogs and trains far off
heat bugs and water
you hear the wind, it tells you more
than sobbing or laughter
