Imagin is beauty. I am looking to see the melting center of an ancient icicle warmed by Imagin's laughter.
I am looking for Imagin in the dark hallway toward the sewing room in my grandmother's house, beyond the red velvet elevator, beyond the musty pantry and the gardens below. Which floral will she choose.
I am looking deeply for the whispers of Imagin's memory, the way she cloaks herself in the kitsch of the day and brigntens dull space with clippings of cloth and wrapping papers and foil. I am waiting for Imagin, at the base of the willow ringed by water and she sometimes lets her goldfish play under the willow there. Depending on the weather. They die in the cold. Imagin tends to the back porch steps - graying and peeling, she calls her brother over to see, the ants rushing between darkened slivers.
Laughing, Imagin walks toward the woods whispering "leaves of three, let them be". And I am walking after.