The Frame

by Sonja Moore

A photograph, still upon a white window
Gathers the curls and the smile of a girl,
Strong and awakening in a plated frame.

She watches, at dawn, the shining east
And the sleeping form of her sister;
In summer, in winter, she stays all the same.

Through the starlit glass, I hear her laugh,
Gentle and calm, like mine;
She rides on the wind, calling my name.

I keep this shrine, still on a white window,
Still with a timeless expression,
With her back to the west, a dying flame.