Like Frost’s poem, we two diverged when 
the road from childhood trailed off at the altar.
She, of a sensible pumps persuasion, 
left Main Street to see the world
on the arm of a dashing commander.
I, a would-be gypsy with a penchant for 
accents and adventures du jour, stayed 
down South raising beasts and rowdy boys.
Our paths cross, though not enough.
More often, we engage in adagio duets
played with gusto in the key of fiber optics—
her with news of the Smithsonian's latest exhibit,
the royal family's recipe for lobster bisque;
me with tales of church picnics and belly flops
in the backyard pool.
Lives shared in a series of vicarious tête-à-têtes,
exchanging triumphs and trials and trivialities,
for who but sisters can explore—with abject honesty—
such dire concerns as original sin, 
suede after Easter, world peace,
and skin tags?

From She of the Rib (CRM Books, 2006).
Used here with the author's permission.