The feet. Bare, dirty.
Where are her shoes?
The dress. Torn, dusty.
Has she no clean gowns?
The hair. Long, scraggly.
Where's a comb?
The face.
Tired tear trails.
The mouth.
No song.
I think it's me.
I see myself and the trail behind me:
"Ella, don't be lazy.
You know so much about herbs,
please help with the meal."
"Of course."
"Oh, the horses love you; please groom them for us."
"Yes, I love horses."
It seemed right to help; we were family.
and more
and more
and more,
I finally understood it was to late for sisterhood.
It's a problem, a puzzlement, what to do about me.
Just hoping is and endless conundrum, a maze.
Father would say to me,
"Use your brain, my dear."
The garden's still sweet,
there are songs to sing.
No weeping.
No moping.
No melancholy.
I wish---I wish I were not
not quite
so alone.
Father...? Mother...?
I miss you.
Puss,
purr that you love me.
I'll sing you a song,
hold you soft in my arms,
and we'll dance in the garden.