I was born a poet
three years later
my sister a painter
By then I am spouting
Mary Had a Little Lamb
wanting, begging applause
her silent canvas lays beautifully empty
gradually her first words
streak and splash
grandpa’s apple tree, grandma’s lilacs
By then I am tweeting
made-up songs about Wonderland
badger her to join my Peter Pan quest but
her brush heaves high-up strokes
become stony Rockies
she dabs our little white house as if
thrown in as an afterthought
By then I revise Latin hymns
petition angels visit me in dreams
she brushes circles into a mountain lake
gestures me sit at pine-tree shore
I step inside her world of colored shapes
drop fancy words in silver ripples
watch amazed when her hand sets a sun,
rises a Montana moon
By then I am rhyming verses
patterns lifted from Mother Goose
I fling a metaphor at her
Her wistful brush answers
with clouds asleep
like cats on mountain peaks
By then I interrupt incessantly
want only my verses to be heard
but Mom and Dad fill their tranced eyes
with her painting; candle flickers
from pinprick of white house
a feast of our faces delicately etched inside
