for my sisters

For my sisters: I may not play white horse anymore, but I haven't completely grown up yet.

Not a cloud in sight
no wind whipping by
only a me in my tennis shoes
and the bare unpainted sky.

The dirt crumbles, rolls
into the creek below
only us in our rolled up jeans
and the slow stream's passive flow.

The heather grey above us,
the decaying brown below,
the hidden sun behind us,
and the secrets we both hold.

I paint a simple image,
the day was not a beauty:
the heavy air was laden
as it sensed our want of duty.

but there we sat upon the shore
books and chores abandoned
wanting, needing nothing more
for it was all imagined.