To A Sister, DyingLucy Adkins
Let it come easy
as when we were children
falling asleep
in the backseats of cars,
coming home late
from the fair, or Aunt Norma's,
weary, leaning against each other
or lying down full length
to breathe in
the musty old seat covers,
the friendly dust;
night coming through the window
in waves of alfalfa, sweet clover,
feeling the pull of every familiar curve,
the comfortable crunch
of gravel.
And knowing when we stopped
there was someone
to gather you up
and take you in.
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