It's because it's National Poetry Month, and I'm WAAAAAY behind in my rhyming. I'm supposed to be working on a story for my nephew, and, by the time I finish its collection of quattrains, he'll be a grandfather and I'll be in Purgatory, sorting papers for Carl Sandburg. Or, worse, I'll be editing greeting cards in Hell.
Meanwhile, I'll leave this Dickinson for all to enjoy:
TO be alive is power,
Existence in itself,
Without a further function,
To be alive and Will—
’T is able as a God!
The Further of ourselves be what—
Such being Finitude?