As oldest sis, my sibs were cool
and saved me from hot stews at school.
Four brothers made me what I am:
a patchwork quilt, papaya jam.
A rodeo I remember---
those high school days, late November,
my bro and I battled to win
the needle-thread, new contest spin.
Him on a horse, Galloping Gee,
our Grandpaís horse since we were three---
sprinted toward me like a dart.
I threaded the needle from his cart,
but Gee trampled on my bare foot.
I saw our win grow flat, kaput.
Yet luck blessed our days back then;
our ribbon matched my injured skin.
Though raised on farms with boot attire,
Sundays found us in the church choir.
We chased the cats with balls and bats
then faced my dadís corrective chats.
We roped the goats and rode the mule
played paper dolls, enjoyed the pool,
competed in each high school sport
win or lose, had parentís support.
In younger days on school bus ride,
one brother steered, stopped on hillside.
A scooter smashed oncoming car
then hit the bus Ďneath the day-star.
As siblings dashed, they found me okay
my view of them became a parfait.
We worked, we played the rural life
and peace prevailed with little strife.
Over the years we remained pals
my sons became their small decals.
They treasured me, protected me
in work, in play, in misery.
They knew my secret yen to write
a sonnet stanza every night---
were large fans of my poetry,
as patchwork quilt, Iím what you see.