At the edge of my Spirit my sister sits
Her dancing eyes like chocolate moons
Among the clouds that form her face.
Her flop-eared bunny clutched in hand
Linty, gray and worn, his name is Lapin.
Wrapped in blankets and at the edge of Sleep,
I can see the teacups she prepares for tea,
Talking as she pours - to Raggedy Anne, Lapin and me.
And where is the little girl that I once knew
She has gone so far away.
When I walk the woods in which we played,
And hear the brook near which we stayed
I know she’s there with her pet Lapin,
My dearest sister, my favorite friend.
"At the Edge" title piece from At the Edge
Brought out of the archives as a result of S. Gibb's profound depiction of loss in her piece entitled Individual
Oh but, this one slams into the heart, Steve. Slams into it.
ReplyDeleteAh......it's very much at the edge indeed. And the picture accentuates it, with that very blurry touch of mystery. This is one of my favorite posts of yours.
ReplyDeleteThese two days I've also been thinking of a friend who lost his sister recently.