Yes! Yes! I know!

Jane was born in England in 1775

and, in 1817, died.

So young, the Angels cried.

Emily was born in America, 1830

and was carried out

through the back door of Homestead,

her sanctuary in Amhurst, in 1886.

Jane rooted for the Red-Coats.

Emily for the Union Blue.

I know.

Neither lived while the other was alive.

So what?

This is a fiction!

More, it’s poetry, where poetic license reigns!

Just imagine the possibilities

when it is their Souls that speak!

First, hints of a secret, six week stay,

just outside Boston, the Hub of the world.

(Emily mustered the courage

to cross Massachusetts in a coach and four.

Jane, “…braver, still…,” the Atlantic, under sail.

All arranged in letters over the years.

Composed by a literary urge.

Their themes demanded it of them.

For their sake, the authors had to talk,

one to the other…

Two incandescent meteors moving in a gentle waltz

in a Ladies Boarding House ‘cross the road from Harvard Yard.

And Oh!

The thoughts!

The lovely language of it all!

And Oh!

The skewered hypocrisy!

Oh!

The joyous exposing of inequity

in the treatment of the Female!

And the thumping of masculine iniquity

so ubiquitous in their time!

And yet, the light, little foot prints

gently pressed onto dew soaked fields

during their sunrise meanderings.

And Oh!

The giggles and the out-loud-laughs!

The delightful, silk- gloved-hands

gently covering their lovely lips.

They may have even invited Bronte’

if they felt they needed more company,

who might have agreed, if only Mary Shelley

came along for the ride!

(Sans her mad Doctor and his Monster)

Even Miss Alcott might attend,

perhaps dragging her Jo along.

(They lived so close by, after all…)

Imagine the wonderful things they all might have said,

each to each!

And! Oh! My Lord!

The long reach

of their Beauties and their Truths!

Yes! Their Truths and Beauty!