a mirror to the woods;
from the deck we listen to the birds
chat with the ducks and geese,
our favorite alarm clocks,
raucous and reliable.
Arriving here is to dip into
a warm relaxing bath,
preamble to exchanged massages
after sunning our nude bodies
in green country privacy,
soft breezes our sweet music.
At my own house I can never
sleep quite so peacefully
as here with lavender morning light
as backdrop to friendly crowds
of tall deep purple trees,
nature's calm protective fence.
Her gleaming hardwood floors reflect
my sister's shining spirit,
her timeless beauty lingers longer
than the full grown pink hibiscus
blooming by the guest room window
blessing my sleep.
The beavers in her pond could never
be fonder of their lodges
than am I of my sister's home
where love and conversation
are more tasty and satisfying
than her gourmet meals and wine.
My city house cannot compare
in terms of natural beauty,
but I'm hoping when she visits
her heart will feel the welcome
radiating from my hearth
as I always do from hers.
There is no sibling rivalry
in my dear sister's house,
her mother was not my mother,
'though it often seemed that way
through these many treasured years;
this sister was my heart's choice.
(c)Mary Curro 2009
published in Skipping Stones Vol VI
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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