Dear Emily,

You may know me.
Sometimes when poets read my words,
they call me that other Emily.
You were the first.
I found you when I was a little girl.
My grandmother gave me a book.
And there you were.
I lost myself in your words so often
that I started to remember them.
I took you with me wherever I went
and when I was lonely in a crowd
there you were, my lovely companion.
They said you had trouble
learning to tell time, and so did I.
My hair is chestnut, too--
with a little gray showing here and there.
My eyes are brown.
I don't have a white dress, though.
I have a gray sheer
with white window pane pattern.
I wish our gardens connected
sometime
so that we could meet at the fence
and share receipts.
You might like my blackberry cake.
A cup of tea. A glass of sherry.
I wonder if you knew that you were
extraordinary.
Your gifts not just poetry.
You were a sentient person
surrounded by the deaf and blind.
You saw more.
Heard more
than your neighbors.
I just wanted to say that I understand.
We are alike in many ways.

Your most obed. servant,

Emily