Emma Stands at Her Doorway: Nauvoo, 1846

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Rinse out the rag while you stand at the door; there is no more

ripe fruit at this point in the season. Those wagons that

rise on the opposite bank are filled with what they hope won’t rot. A

risk to stay or to go, but what goes are

rituals that brought you in and left you out, made you a

rival. They will build their own kind of empire, as the

river crossing ends another. A boundary, but not a fixed one. You are

robed in your choice, weary of the

romance of all things new, aching to

root by this river and rest.

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