Little Brother Borne

The winter snow falls hard this bitter year;

Poor sister Anne lies sick with fever high.

My youthful eyes can see what parents  fear:

Red-eyed Death on leather wing hovers nigh.

I am ordered to bed but feign repose;

I hide until my folks have gone to sleep.

With scythe in hand as the candle flame glows,

I enter Anne's cold room with soundless creep. 

Death turns its bony face upon the blade 

As it sweeps across its black leather wing;

A second strike cuts through its hooded braid

To splinter skull and spine with forceful sting. 

Anne survived the night and woke the morn

As my soul took flight into heaven borne.