Postcard face:
The White Rose
Solitary she sits
Scratching paper with pen
Preconceiving Gilligan
with a paradoxical spin
Writing verse by verse
never leaving ‘herst
heads of horses neighing ’bout
if Faith and and science averse
My heart is not yet broke
so to the bog we go
listen to the bird-song cry
From the feathers floating by
And if I were to close
I guess I would suppose
that we should thank Miss Dickinson
And not just for her prose
Postcard verso:
Caleb Shultz