(04 October 1943 / Germany)


She's always been my favourite girl,
although a kin, as they would say,
a boy who'd stand in her defense
and told his buddies that she was
always off limits for the crowd,
sort of untouchable, of snow white purity,
not to be even talked about
among the boys who grew and blew
to snuff the candles out, if they were lit
and mussed the flaxen hair of youth
while slyly peeking under cloth,
to find the promise of the teenage years.

So many decades on, it was a shock,
a stunning look of pink flushed cheeks
and sinew sense beneath the folds
of cotton, sometimes wool or silk,
and on the trail into the heights,
to touch and feel the trees and shrubs
that he, the Master Johann called his own
and if I look at her, as she ascends
with jogging sticks up to the Kickelhahn
I see the ambience of poetry, it rises
and echos with her hurried steps
who wouldn't want a sister just like this?

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