Sister, what will we do with the day?
I’ll hold your hand now, but might pull away,
dare the dusk like my heroes, then run home to stay there.
I’m not afraid there.

But now we’re just out, and the side door swings.
All around us are such fragile things.
I’ll save them all, make them strong, hold them under my wings tight.
I’ll never take flight.

Please.
Breathe.

Another sundown, inside on my own.
Could strive for much more, but I know I won’t.
Some are glad just with sharing what summer has grown ripe,
and TV shows’ light.

So many autumns, so many moons.
Last year’s garden is gone to make room.
Though they wither, never say “no flowers bloomed there.”
You’ll see others soon there.

Please.
Breathe.

We gamble on life (comfort and pain)
for ruin or prize (those are the stakes)
some thieve for and fight (but who’ve I betrayed?)
yet I’ve chosen mine (and what would I change?).

Sister, what will the day do with us?
I don’t know, and won’t worry much.
Though the river’s between us, I feel your touch.