Two sisters with black bangs like their mom
celebrating the bulb
that chose to light the room
they shared with mom and dad.
I saw one's socks, her shoes were with holes.
I saw one's well-worn hands.
Still they jumped and still
they clutched their gifts so tight.
You might cry for me,
but I cry for you no more.
With their heads on my shoulders,
one read a verse that she knew.
The other colored paper.
Their father laughed.
In this desert, within walls
of cinder block and foam,
I saw blessings received,
yet hearts kept pure.
I cry for you no more.