Emily, dearest Emily,
we are worlds apart,
and in different plains of time,
but I wish, O how I wish,
I knew you and shared your
secret vital joy,
which is also mine.

For you wrote from imagination’s pen
and she has moved through time and place to me,
even if I am less and you are greater.

I would love to sit with you
inside the room of your reclusive heart
and drink from “Tankards scooped in Pearl”,
drink the words that filled your soul
and gave you everlasting life.

But alas there remains alone
your hidden words now shared
that perch like a flower
on the tongue, seeping nectar,
and carry me to ecstatic shapes of thought and feeling
that is something like love unfolding within.

Yes, this is a love that is truer than most,
for it comes from a person like you,
one who understands the urgent passion of
of flowing words on empty page,
the passion for self alone and nothing more.

For Emily Dickinson