There is something primal in the way she whispered

winter into the rolling green meadows,

that were riddled with legends,

and remnants of the time before

Her eyes lit up the night and sprinkled

starlight into moonbeams like a 

seed that grows into the dogwood trees

by the river and beneath

the gods on the mountain,

Or the rolling hills

I am patient and still while

dreams breathe truth into distance

and my sister sings to me;

She is tradition,

she is beauty