Toby

Sixty three she would be today.
But she died at twenty seven,
Forgetting just long enough
How to live.

Life feels itself.
But it cannot outwit death,
Who always carries the upper hand.

My sister,
Who, like my Mother, loved and nurtured me,
Forgot me too,
Just long enough to die her final death.

The one that would leave death alive
In all who she left behind,
We who are looking, always looking.

Bootless in the snow.

Joe Postove