Poetry | Stories | Photography
Returning to a short sleep,
I served for another year.
My sister awakens warmth,
I am not without a heart.
She knows I often take time,
so slow to let the North go.
Before sleep, we often talk,
I do get carried away.
My sister knows it is time,
before sleep, a naughty smile.
She and I are creative,
we produce a sun shower.
Returning to dreams and sleep,
see you soon, my sister Spring.
When we were young,
when you and I, you and me, we used to listen to the sea.
Now we live so far away,
in different places; foreign places so far away from where we used to listen to the sea.
Without knowing why,
at a random time of the day,
you and I, you and me, we will listen from afar to the sea.
Weeping from behind the brown door grew louder and louder until one could hear the crying from all corners of the house.
The house lives and breathes something primal; malice lingers in the corners, threatening those who venture too close to the flame.
She is only six, so she knows things and sees things the adults choose not to see, things adults choose to forget.
Weeping from behind the brown door stirs something forgotten in her soul as if she knows who occupies those walls.
Taking a torch, she pads tentatively along the hall of rooms to the one sitting at the end, the one with the brown door.
Experienced with keys and as sharp as a knife, she hastily acquires the key and puts the right one in the lock to see if it works.
A click and movement are all the convincing she needs to enter without fear, only to discover why the weeping continues.
Two eyes stare at her, and a quick movement frightens her, yet she holds her nerve and enters further into the room.
The eyes occupy a person. The person is familiar to her; the person is her long-lost sister, who she feared dead.
Convinced at once that this is her chance, she takes her sister’s hand, and they pad along the hall and out into the night.
Their parents wake up to two empty rooms and two sisters gone away by a vanishment that created a legend.
For the girls, they made their way through the forest and into the night; now, they live countries away without fear of the night.
Spring arrived, yet the cold eats
into my flesh and bones to make
my hands and feet feel numb.
Winter has not done her duty yet,
for she wishes to hang on and
feel the way she makes us feel.
Spring keeps scolding Winter
for being bossy,
yet we know Winter is like an
an older sister who loves the
younger one so,
and cannot let go.
Spring arrived, yet I am glad
Winter is near,
for I do love her
and
the way she makes me feel.
C & K 