Sister,
look at the moon
fret with you
above Mt. Luna.
He knows the fiefdom of
dissenting clans
is upon you,
somewhere
in a countryside
where poetry
never
had a chance.
The fire in the mountains
is a torrid
metaphor
you have to live with
till December.
If manifest destiny is what
I can put my faith in
then
that hill
visible from your window
at midnights
is a sieve
for all that you feel,
often
even your darkest hours
are there,
thick and immanent,
like the trees on its broadened chest
and the stars
that you count
are
lanterns
according you
the share of light
you need.
You know
sister,
this part of the world
has not forgotten
that you fret
and rain your quiet tugs
on your pillows.
Your brother,
he is unable to walk two miles
with a straight back.
He frets too
because that's how far
it goes
to sense your smoke signals
beyond hills and fogs.
We have only till December.
Trust in the good God of grace.
This month too will pass.
This separation too shall pass.
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