May Fifteenth 1886

She slipped away — one May afternoon —

While gardens bloomed — outside her room —

Nature, her oldest friend — kept watch

As breath — grew soft — then ceased its tune.

No thunderous exit — for the one

Who lived so quietly — in Amherst town —

Just silence — settling like dust —

On desk — on pen — on unfinished crown.

They did not know — the verses stored —

In drawers — like precious, hidden seeds —

That would outlive — her mortal frame —

And bloom — through centuries — indeed.

Death came — not as a stranger — no —

But as a theme — she'd long explored —

Her carriage ride — at last arrived —

Immortality — her true reward.

She who dressed in white — now wrapped

In words — eternal as the sky —

The dashes — between life and death —

Too narrow for — her soul — to die.

© 2025 Tim Carmichael. All rights reserved.

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