After Candlemas,
my sister slips on her holly tights,
buttons a branching blouse,
her chest, two small plums
fit for a stocking,
her toes, sleds on the icy hallway,
blissfully unaware of any drop-off.
As if in a trance, she will present:
her groomed foliage,
a gentle pigeon,
her pleasing shape,
a volunteer dove,
and her glowing hair,
a purified Christmas tree
ready to be burned.
And I am in awe
behind my crêpe-
colored door,
eye to keyhole,
taking in her blessings,
fearful I may be the next lamb
lost to an unfriendly coastline.
For today’s poem, I was inspired by Argentinian and Italian surrealist painter Leonor Fini. She defied stereotypes and expectations in her own life and her works reflect that.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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