Trapped in Mrs. Thompson's parlor,
my sister was forced to play "Für Elise"
until she got it right. Music stirred
the curtains and filled the yard
where I came to wait. Mrs. Thompson left lemonade
on the porch to lure me in, but outside

I could climb trees and be what I wanted —
a buzzard or cowboy in ambush
picking off bad guys one by one.
Now, nostalgia is something that happens
when music turns toward a passage that haunts me,
when my body consents like a reed to a stream —

or when I see my sister in memory's dress
and saddle shoes step out in the sunshine
to call my name and turn into something beautiful.

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