I am celebrating my sister with quinoa and Billy Collins.
I am smiling while I eat and write
and I will smile while I read tonight
and I will smile while I sleep inside
a dream about her face.
She is closer to Grace than any person I know-
more so than my friends doing backbends on mats and
paying outrageous amounts of money
for pieces of peace.
She knows that real peace has no cost, and
when she speaks it’s always of hope not lost
to a truly enlightened being.
She sees dirty dishes thrown together as fine art of the sink;
There it is. Each thing.
Were it not beautiful
It would be invisible-
She lives the words of Stan Rice and loves to advise that
there is alwaysalwaysalways a bright side-
She. Tells. Me.
Having the body of a crumpled leaf
she somehow sends me philosophical poetry on the importance of a smile,
with flowers for my wall.
She never complains about anything-
not when she falls or needs help up a step or
when our faces are wet and hers is dry.
The first line of some prayer has been in my mind all day:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change-
So simple to be such a feat
for me and everyone I know older than thirteen
and not named Indy.
If God never gives more than be carried and
if Death is the Road to Awe, tell me,
how many journeys does it take
to learn to wear a back that breaks
as though it only weighs a portion of a pound?