ON READING EMILY BRONTE

It began with a copy of Wuthering Heights.

Echoes of intrigue lept out of the pages.

I felt them weave themselves into my being.

Another's creation. But where is she now?

Death cannot erase greatness. It is

her immortality, her irresistibility. Why

not before? Had I lived then, could I

have known her, perhaps better understood?

Imagination. So she first entranced me with those miniscule

booklets: Gondal resurrected in my psyche.

Now, when I move, her pen moves with me.

Just out of sight, she directs my life, ever watchful.

And if, as she claims, Heathcliff truly loves Cathy,

then what kind of love is so obsessive

that it rips both Souls to shreds

and condemns them to eternal unrest?

Or is it my unrest - her words merely evoking

my deepest, most tormented desires?

If, as I suspect, I am Cathy; then I must find him -

he is the prize within the maze of words.

But, why should I read, when living it is more persuasive?

Or long to touch, when feeling without touching

is so unexpected, so exquisite and so rare?

Today, his proximity. Ecstasy is in the air.