When fish jump out of their streams to play, and birds dive into the waters… When day is night and night is day; when things linger that cannot stay… When far is near is far away… The sisters roam about.
They live in a world un-seeable, un-liveable, and rightly un-convivial. They live on the mountain under the waves. They dance on the plains inside of the caves. The sisters cannot share their days, except on days like these.
Sister Sophie kisses branches, leaving buds after her touch. She frolics with the birds and hares and deer she loves so much. She bounces across the meadows, dragging rainclouds far behind her. She nestles in under the reeds when the rainclouds find her. Her hair is pink and thin, with blossoms woven in. She lives in puddles and new branches, for the squirrels don’t mind her.
Sister Susie paints the sky shades of deep and shallow blue. She pushes seeds into the soil and pulls out something new. The sun shines brightly through her arms. She sets the land on fire. But only to clear a space around so new life can acquire. Her skin is golden brown; the sunlight is her gown. She lives along the ocean shore, where sea waves are her choir.
Sister Wendy sparkles with an evening glow. When the moon rises high and shines upon the snow. She strips her trees of clothing. She nestles in the bark. She spreads her arms out wide to house the sparrows, doves and larks. She is a pure as a blank book; she ices skies and freezes brooks. Her favorite spot in all her land, is hilltop after dark.
But on special days like these, there are no rules or boundaries. The sisters emerge from their corners, and skip and run with ease. Sister Wendy builds a fort and Sister Sophie helps, as she spreads fresh petals over the frozen shelves. Sister Susie combs the ground and holds what it will yield. With berries, squash, and leafy greens, her hands are rightly filled. The sisters sit across a meadow, about to eat their feast. When from the north there comes a sound vaguely like a beast.
The sisters glance upon each other, knowing something more. For in fact, the sisters three are truly sisters four.
The fourth has gone uninvited, for as the others say: she has no merry things about her that contribute to their play. The winds that bring her in are fierce; not like Sophie’s breeze. And her air is cold and bare, unlike Wendy’s icy freeze. Her holidays are somber, raising up the dead. She sleeps beneath a yellow moon, with dry leaves as her bed. The three sisters have done their best to lose her on this day. But now they cannot hide from their Sister Faye.
Sister Faye draws a path through the snow and soil. She crashes through the plants and trees to those who were disloyal.
“What is here?” she asks as she points down to the food. “A dance and feast without me? Why, that was quite rude.”
And though Faye speaks so softly that her words float down like flowers… the sisters see Faye’s gleaming eyes and all begin to cower.
“I see that all you want, my dears, is just to be together. I will help your merry quest and keep you close forever.”
The winds begin to blow, and push the trees to bend. Sister Faye grabs each one and twists them end to end.
After many hours, Faye’s piece is finally done. A tribute to her sisters, forever in their fun. They now are carved of dying branch and sprinkled with dry leaves. With all the things from her land, her sisters did Faye weave. Now they will always know who they forgot to call. For while the seasons change with time, they will forever mark the Fall.