Sis

She's always been my favourite girl, although a kin, as they would say, a boy who'd stand in her defense and told his buddies that she was always off limits for the crowd, sort of untouchable, of snow white purity, not to be even talked about among the boys who grew and blew to snuff the candles out, if they were lit and mussed the flaxen hair of youth while slyly peeking under cloth, to find the promise of the teenage years. So many decades on, it was a shock, a stunning look of pink flushed cheeks and sinew sense beneath the folds of cotton, sometimes wool or silk, and on the trail into the heights, to touch and feel the trees and shrubs that he, the Master Johann called his own and if I look at her, as she ascends with jogging sticks up to the Kickelhahn I see the ambience of poetry, it rises and echos with her hurried steps who wouldn't want a sister just like this?