At Length

Her final month of summer
Was all we feared that it might be
Not her tender graciousness
Left us in her wake, but that drive
Drawn from the womb's well
Fired her urgency
Made her hunger pain
We wondered at their blindness
When nothing was more plain
As they quarried her stone heart
Their stupidity no brighter
Than a dullard's dull insolence
It was life's force within her
Not pleasure drove her on


n.b. NaPoWriMo 2023. Day 22 prompt, Dickinson deconstructed – restructured; reconstituted -.

Here, I offer At Length, re-formed.

CLP 22/04/2023