It sifts from leaden sieves, 
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, - 
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence, 
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, - 
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of poets,
As ankles of a queen, - 
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

(from Selected Poems by Emily Dickinson, printed 2016)

She doesn’t really say, but I think Emily Dickinson is writing about fog. The poem seems to drift into the consciousness like a fog – wafting, rolling, billowing. My favorite part is how it engulfs the fence, “wraps it, rail by rail”. What do you think she is writing about in this poem?