Her long blonde hair is just as tressed,
and all its faults as evanesced
as when she did not sleep.
Upon her pale face lingers light,
on her body, folds of white
to lend her to the deep.
Part of me just wants to lean
by the powdered, sculptured scene
and give her arm a shake--
like I used to, in the morning
when two light green eyes, adorning,
would laugh to be awake.
But the windmills she was chasing,
every last resort erasing,
racked her while the sad end drew.
More than any boy who kissed her,
more than words, I loved my sister,
and I only hope she knew.
In loving memory of Melissa Gene Picardat, May 23, 1987 - October 8, 2004.