“My younger sister after her stroke, concrete, dull in sonnet form”

She once was laughter, quick and sharp as spring,  
Her words would tumble, bright as marbles poured;  
Now silence lingers—quiet suffering—  
Her voice recedes, sharp edges dulled, ignored.  
Her hands, once fluttering—small birds in flight—  
Now rest, unmoving, caught in time’s embrace.  
Her world, now made of concrete edged in blight,  
A city street—no color, joy, or grace.  
Yet still there flickers, in her distant gaze,  
A stubborn spark, refusing to be stilled;  
The weight is heavy as these endless days,  
But hope, though battered, fights to be fulfilled.  
O sister, as you journey far from me,  
I hold your hand through dull eternity.

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