The way the light reflected from bits of hanging glass,
Twirling in the winter morning is how you remember Christmas,
Not the break neck speed that the family would gather around the tree
those cold Boston mornings,
Yelling, boisterous and gallant,
Your brothers
golden boys shimmering in the light
Young gods waiting for their bud to blossom
Teased you for your complacency,
Your name,
Keepsake for remembrance,
Fragrant flower with a hint of sadness mingled,
Groomed for New England tea parties and social graces,
Not the lost gaze of self-reflection,
Little Bo Peep with no flock to keep,
This is how they remember you,
Lost girl,
Slowly walking down a haunted corridor,
Drifting merrily down the stream,
You,
Were not lost,
There were
No words to describe the
feeling of
Twirling
Endlessly,
Dervish
Until they took you away,
And you never
did find your way back
from that
haunted corridor,
Not understanding that
paddling upstream with no paddle
can last a lifetime.
