We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
The Lightning is a yellow Fork From Tables in the sky By inadvertent fingers dropt The awful Cutlery Of mansions never quite disclosed And never quite concealed The Apparatus of the Dark To ignorance revealed.
I don't know how long Dickinson tended to linger over her dispatches, but so many of them, like this, have the character of something that entered her brain - like that lightning - and she wrote it down just as it struck and let it be. Her poems often contain some slight inconsistency or apparent metrical flaw that more deliberation might have erased, and probably to the the poem's detriment. I think those awkward turns actually show the peculiarity of her mind in action, and is why they make their mark.
Of course she also might have sweated over every syllable.
She is also a modern example of the artist's person becoming more famous and more discussed than the art due to contemporary social and political fascinations. I have resolutely refused to know more about her biography other than the barest skeleton; she, if anybody, who she was is in those poems. That is what she had to say.