My Sistr

My sister, she warns me
that when you get old, you get empty
and unaware of little things,
and haven’t time for wondering.

My sister, before me,
says cities are cold, and she’s sorry.
Then noticing her sister is a little thing,
says nothing more.

Now and then, she puzzles me.

My sister and I disagree:
the lines near my eyes are a comfort to me;
and though it tends to add years to a face,
a city is a wondrous place.