Speaking of sisters…
She is dressing her sister who is stooped and round, whose eyes appear birdlike from behind thick lenses, bright and small, teary wet. “They are wrong, these makers. Clothes never fit us do they?”
“Wrong yes and no they don’t!” answers the straight tall one, made prettier still by the droop of her matching dress. They wander apart from my sight, happy and unfettered by their disarray.
These are perfect whose days make, swallow us completely, if we are inclined to such event, walk the walk out of self. Where does truth, happiness lie? On the lips of free Children, hand me, hand me, hand me down your grief and sleepy pillow. I want to tell you about sisters, where they fit and why they don’t allow the imperfections of flesh, the injustice of life, to drag them down. They are good,
the life breath of love.
There is a curious joining when the one tall and perfect is dependent upon the needs of the other bends under the load is heavy and wears them down where they speak in whispers, giggle at passersby who seldom understand such dynamics of connection. These perfect, grown together, whose husbands hold them each, know not where one beauty ends, the perfection of both begins.
**My name was not on the Amazon quarterfinalist list. I'm working, writing Momma's Fire.**
She is dressing her sister who is stooped and round, whose eyes appear birdlike from behind thick lenses, bright and small, teary wet. “They are wrong, these makers. Clothes never fit us do they?”
“Wrong yes and no they don’t!” answers the straight tall one, made prettier still by the droop of her matching dress. They wander apart from my sight, happy and unfettered by their disarray.
These are perfect whose days make, swallow us completely, if we are inclined to such event, walk the walk out of self. Where does truth, happiness lie? On the lips of free Children, hand me, hand me, hand me down your grief and sleepy pillow. I want to tell you about sisters, where they fit and why they don’t allow the imperfections of flesh, the injustice of life, to drag them down. They are good,
the life breath of love.
There is a curious joining when the one tall and perfect is dependent upon the needs of the other bends under the load is heavy and wears them down where they speak in whispers, giggle at passersby who seldom understand such dynamics of connection. These perfect, grown together, whose husbands hold them each, know not where one beauty ends, the perfection of both begins.
**My name was not on the Amazon quarterfinalist list. I'm working, writing Momma's Fire.**
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