Of golden skeins and wheaten fields,
I braid my sister’s hair.
She lets me know with leonine spunk
That she loves the jewels I wear.

I touch my lobe and sense the ridge
Of my pure topaz stud,
And say they’re hers when she has aged
Because they are meant for blood.

My own hair curls and spins and twists,
Some days it is a mess,
Yet the irk of it all cannot surpass
My heart to pray and bless.

In these ways we live just like you,
And it can be hard to find,
Where her spark or my many words
Grew in the fruit, of our rind.

You gave us things that make our face
Recognizable like the dawn,
But you’re more than that because
There is, no M-O-M codon.