After great pain, a formal feeling comes --

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --

The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,

And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round --

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --

A Wooden way

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone --

This is the Hour of Lead --

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --

First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go -- 

emily dickinson.

i am actually feeling so much more something today. if not more redblush vivid, then something closer, the pinktinged hope of warming fingers, maybe. but then there was emily, and she knew why my smile is stiff, why it takes me a few seconds to remember to laugh. 

but this morning it was those last few words that made me curl my toes and stretch my arms, just to feel the blood rush to the farthest reaches of me. 

to reteach my nerves their joyous pliability.

and celebrate lay-down casuality.