If I could little sister I’d turn back time,
suck the sand up the hourglass to before
that tsunami cell phone call tumbled you
heels over head; sent you skidding across
a remote, rocky beach; then spit you out,
breathless and whimpering on a cold and distant shore.
If I could little sister I’d turn back time,
flip calendar pages backwards, make time stop
on the day before that all-changing day stole
every bit of breeze from your trembling sails,
left you struggling to inhale, and forever more
divided all your days into before … and after.
If I could little sister I’d take you away
to a faraway beach, where evening’s calm surrender
would melt the sky a thousand shades of splendor.
You’d search the horizon for a mythical green flash.
I’d pick shards of sea glass from your fragile heart,
gently daub your bleeding wounds,
and wrap big sister arms around you.
But know, little sister, if only I could,
I surely would,
turn back time.
