I thought we would be happier if we stuck together,
But every day I have more doubt that we'll last forever.

I hate that we seem more like two drifters,
Than being anywhere close to sisters.

Three Little Women were best friends from the start,

Even though they were two and four years apart.

Golden Brown locks, all three in a row,

All dressed alike, from their head to their toes.



The oldest was protective, a mothers right hand.

Next was a gentle wild child always in dreamland.

Last was the one who was giggly and small,

And looked up to her sisters that broke her every fall.



Three Little Women at play in grassy meadows.

A secret garden they made with dirt covered knees and elbows.

Bare foot in jeans is how they’d always be found,

Just happy to have the others old hand-me down.



Fireflies caught at dusk in a jar,

Their faces aglow as they wished upon a star.

They swung on their swings and sat down for tea,

And ran to the mailbox singing “Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free”.



Three Little Women would lay awake at night,

Telling stories and secrets in the glow of a night-light.

A room they did share with two big bunk beds,

And prayers said together before they’d rest their sweet heads.



Knick-knacks they’d exchange after doing their chores.

Makeovers and dress up were their favorites for sure.

American Girl Dolls, Barbie’s, and dresses,

Six tiny hands together making messes.



Three Little Women are little no longer,

All grown up and a friendship much stronger.

One day they will have little women of their own,

And once again they can enjoy what they once had outgrown.



Forever they will remain each other’s best friends,

Until their time together here on earth ends.

Nothing can shatter a bond so pure and true,

Sisters who love each other more than most sisters do.

(As if sitting in a wooden box)

I confess.
I confess to feeling the pain of needs unmet and overlooking it,
to hearing the opening of things, the closing of them too
the confidence of a heart unbroken say "I'd like to try!"
and a cold bitter laugh in a triumph of parsimony.
I confess to doing less and allowing it in my own vulnerability.

(As if tearing a casing spun of silk)

I am a catalogist, rebuilding a place
In my defence I have known you less, but even now -
there are no reference books to your emotions or reactions
no rule of thumb except to ease anger, aid logic, clear runways.

(As if the knowing was as easy as the learning)

together we are four decades of stubbornness and pain and kindness
we are warmed feet on the black range cooker
we are the climbing wall at the fair
You are three dots, ellipsis, open-ended.
and i am writing bad poetry about a girl who can fly...