How poetic can you be?

The Christmas tree is there of course,

An annual that blooms shortly after

The last of the Halloween candy is eaten;

And after grows its tinsel and ornament blooms

Watered by whispers of youthful laughter

Often growing from the warmth of our sun's hot cousins,

Fireplaces all around!

Do memories have sound?

Of course they reside within our minds

But are often echoed in our hearts and hearths

Some but not all laid upon the gesso

Of a single massive birth.

There are you and your goofier half

Your sister in all dimensions by DNA.

You went to every party together

Every event where you worked and where you played.

That clock you got from a tiny shop in London that sold

All things that measured time. There was no reason,

There was no season, but shopping together did not go old!

Syracuse gave you both an excuse to party

With the icing being classes.

And if you partied way too hard

Their tests really kicked your asses.

That bull you got in Spain because you were the one that's sane.

She got the 'gift' of a bull's horn's kiss,

Said running with the bulls made her feel alive!

Which you both laughed at EVENTUALLY since she survived.

The years wound down and the sounds around

Included children at least for her.

That toy truck you bought when Jack was three

Now whispers out its dirt filled memories.

That travel mug still makes you smile,

She filled it up with Vodka in Ukraine.

You took a gulp and coughed it down

Yelling her she was insane.

You sigh when you look at Idaho,

The last trip you took together,

After finding out her achiness

Had nothing to do with being under weather.

It was an effort to take her there but she laughed

Just as when she glowed with health:

She too was a bird of pray,

That last park you saw that day,

Twelve years ago today.

Jack of course has grown up now,

More serious than his mom

But does still PUNish you when he's in the mood

Warped words, absurd but wickedly done.

He never did learn to wrap his gifts

Or to at least disguise them in clever ways.

But a tear fills her eye and she understands

The logic of the case. Twelve years she's gone nowhere

Except for work and church and home.

And she had forgotten her sister's plea

That she travel even if it feels she is alone:

"You won't be," your best friend said.

"Just look outside your vision.

I'll be the one, holding up the sun

And throwing  you gentle dirision!"

The tears become an ocean then

But morph them into flacks of snow.

You will go on a few trips here

But the last one you just know

Will be to be with her again

And for evermore more.

You again in your short short shorts,

Her laughing and shouting,

"Hoe Hoe Hoe!"