Desire for indoor imprisonment is not what I,
(who carry my paints in my backpack
and stop in meadows to sketch)
read in Emily Dickinson's poems
of robins, orioles, and butterflies.
Their lives as important as our own.
In solitary confinement,
she wrote alone in her room,
in spite of the doctor who told her not to:
"Can you render my Pencil?
The Physician has taken away my Pen."

[ and in her writing]