This pandemic has been a wrecking ball in the lives of Americans already struggling. Maybe it was the unspoken question she posed at the end from her solitary room: “I’ve heard it in the chillest land / And on the strangest Sea / Yet - never - in Extremity / It asked a crumb - of me.”
Her room overlooked a cemetery, and many of her poems are focused on death.Īs the winter of 2020 approached, I might have expected one of those poems to keep floating to mind, but instead it was her writing on hope: “’Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” it begins, “/ That perches in the soul / And sings the song without the words / And never stops - at all -” Though her isolation was voluntary, I doubt it was easy. The following is a copy of MacKenzie Scott's Press Release on .Įmily Dickinson lived much of her life isolated in a single room, and I’ve found her poetry coming to me a lot this year.
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