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?