One wakes with the sun,
Walks where the wind is kind,
worn to the shape of stillness.
She does not speak of being alone,
but the dog listens,
and that is enough.
The other lives in London now —
rush-hour in her veins,
We watch her
blur in the city that hums.
Always moving,
never still long enough
for silence to settle.
And then there is me—
in the middle,
measuring time
by the way they both move.
We were raised under
the same roof,
but carry our peace
like women born in
separate seasons.
