This poem is a morning twilight sleep gift.  The first stanza came and I knew if I went back to sleep it would travel on to a more willing hand.  So I got up, brushed my teeth, made some coffee and set myself to the task of catching the whole thing before it went away.  I love when that happens.

Stolen

The sister I never had sits
on the front stoop steps of the house
I did not grow up in, its interior
more smoke and fog than memories.

She has dark eyes and hair as I once did
and can speak the language of fairies and
gnomes, lost to me when my mother gave
me away for strangers to raise.

The connection holds, however, whether
or not I knew it then.  Now I recognize gifts
of pine cones, magnolia seeds and the insistence
of green things that grow tall, face toward the sky.

When I was small I thought I was a princess
in exile but it turns out I am a queen entitled to gold
birds, sapphire flowers and a clowder of cats with kindles
of kittens, court jesters, in my backyard for company.

I find tales that need telling, history hiding under
wild violets, whispers living in empty shells, sagas
growing around tall firs like vines, choking them
for the want of revelation, seeking disclosure.

My sister brings me rocks from the lake, three agates
among them.  Together we sort the colors and striations
into separate piles, pluck out what doesn’t belong, hold
hands and promise to never let go.