Grace is deep in the cool of an August moon, rising low while my lips whisper their last summer prayer. Stuttered, slow, silently, soon to be asleep, in the arms of forgotten dreams that move your mind like a rolling wave. Along the floor of a misty lake, memories tend to live in the middle depths with the weekend sun placing light across your face. So hear my voice like the wind, circling my teeth, create in me a brand new heart.

I smell the way that my candle burns, vanilla as the leaves and petals of the flowers you picked for mom when she was sick. She put them in my third grade vase, right above the sink, where the window light might make them dance, playful in some summer sun. Well, I saw you there in black and white photographs you took of your friends, they were picking small berries off of Leelanau bushes in the sandy soil so close to the edge of Lake Michigan, its moving edge.

Keep your honest ways your innocence is something more rare than home made clothes that our grandma helped you sew up. I want to listen more, you are my only sister. The times we've spent alone are fleeting but remind me that grace is deep in the cool of an August moon, rising low while my lips whisper their last summer prayer. So hear my voice like the wind, circling my teeth, create in me a brand new heart.