baby blues

I had a sister long ago:

a girl with stories of magic and faeries.

She visited the countryside and picked a pink calypso.

She followed her father through the bushes to pick blueberries.

I had a little sister once:

a young man's favourite daughter,

a little girl who loved to give advice.

When it stormed, she splashed in pools of water.

When it snowed, she burrowed in a castle made of ice.

Sometimes, she grew bored of reality:

spacing away into worlds untold.

Her imagination was a sight to behold.

And woe is me!

She had a dreadful fear of growing old.

A child of sensitivity and unbridled glee,

she's more of a distant relative than a

foreign version of me. There's a sort of

naivety

that comes with being a child.

She had mischief in her smile.

I haven't known her in a while.

Years ago, when she was but a child, my sister

played pretend. I have not known why

she always felt accomplished

in the end.

"I'll read you a book," said she to her younger brother.

My little sister loved to story tell and play outside.

"I'll help you make cookies," said she to her tired mother.

She was never anything but happy faced and twinkly eyed.

Sometimes, she grew tired of sensibility:

slipping into imagined lives and homes.

I taught her how to write a poem.

And woe is me! She never feared the darkness

of the gloam.

A child who loved to read and contemplate,

she had a habit of getting lost within all the worlds

she would create. There was a sense of

playfulness

that followed her around.

The allure of the

starry sky

leaves us both spellbound.

I hardly remember, now, that little girl with not a sense of dread.

Alack, she was never much like me. I drown

underneath the chaos in my head.

She was always much more bold than I could ever be.

My sister used to say that she would someday become

famed and wise

and I could not bear to break her heart.

I long to know the little girl with starlight in her eyes.

I long to say I weep

for all the time we spent apart.

Sometimes, she grew sick of youth, for it was

cold and stern: seldom a cause

for a bashful child

to hope to be discerned. There's hypocrisy

in the household.

There's a dream for which to yearn.

A girl with bountiful visions and sanguine eyes,

she always had copious loves over which

to fantasize.

There was purpose in her smile.

I haven't seen it in awhile.

I never really understood what went on in her mind.

She blinked and childhood was no more. It seems

with age, we leave aspiration behind.

Pen and paper guard the thoughts she endeavours to implore.

I had a little sister once: she could be rather glum.

I guarded all the fears she left untold.

Adolescent girls have countless frets to overcome.

Home was sour and cold.

Sometimes, she grew drained by obedience:

for soccer and mud pleased her more than makeup

and skirts. Alas! they say,

a teenage girl is young and inexperienced.

It's rather clamorous within the psyche of an introvert.

A teen of insecurity, my sister could be anxious

and neurotic.

She had a way of being that was truly quite quixotic.

There's a close sense of despair.

There's secrecy in the air.

Perhaps she would have been perceived

if she

had been

more ladylike: But I am not to be

moulded as clay.

It's a shame that she and I were never that alike.

She was far more uncertain than she liked to portray.

Long ago,

my sister learned parents don't always know best.

Most days, she was diffident and meek.

"I wish that my daughter would be girly," said her mother.

Her words are too thick to digest.

I quiver when I speak.

Sometimes, my sister lived in a trance:

fond of magic and youth. For a girl who dreamt

of romance,

she was really quite uncouth.

Even I have not yet learned how to tell the truth.

A girl who was varied and pensive, she was

simple and apprehensive

(and often rather quite defensive)!

I sometimes wish I had been there with her in junior high.

She longed to fit in with the boys, and she

did not know why.

"What would life have been like if I'd known you from the start?"

She asks me this through the glass one day.

Often, I lament the little child with all my heart.

I live in disarray.

There's a sort of melancholy that comes with

growing up.

I don't see my sister anymore.

Sometimes I see her reflection in my coffee cup -

she brings a wistful languor.

"I've waited too many years to find you!"

says she, so headstrong.

I have not spoken to her, though I have

been here

all along.