For my sister, Kris
Under arching branches
Of a row of Russian Olives, you and I
Built a cottage. We lived a new life
In rooms created by boundaries
Only we could discern. I held
My place as eldest, overseer
Of our motherless cloister, as we
Busied ourselves with tasks—
Gathering, sorting, naming.
Long after the branches were cut
And their limbs no longer brushed
The grass, I searched for the confines
Of our refuge, seeing only in vision
The piles of slender leaves and sagey berries
We supped and savored as we lifted
Twigs to our lips.
Our house no longer needs an overseer,
But we dwell in the safe coolness of
Embracing limbs, preparing to break
Through the branches, blinking in sunshine.