'Sister' is from my second book of prose The Quarterly.
I’m reaching from a distant place, marked by time, observing a complex life I can’t begin to understand. Hope is not a plan, but at least it’s something to hold on to.
Lyrics
SISTER
I see the lines between us
The Monarch who carves
The Juggler
Palmist
Matriarch
Her tribe’s vessel of light
With your fingers in rich earth
Like the folded Buddha that smirks in your garden
Truth speaks from your lonely soul
A worn quill
Gathering
I scatter the seeds of my memory
A brother
A playing field
My sketch of you meanders
How I long for our familiar path home
For Karen
©Fredrick Brooks
