Plain secrecy, resides in my humour
I'm a little bird
I flew like this all my life
Like a bag of sand losing my burning weight
Against the current tides of blowing wind

I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.

the skyscape is flowing so naturally over our heads
the light brings alive shadowy sonatas over the hills
each hour the tone of its intensity is changing
such immensity for gentleness
I can't help but woder if a purpose of life is
the sense of beauty

i find it fun to imagine oblivions
and what they mean to different mes.
one hugged too often;
one much less, and bitter for it.
i find it fun to imagine that one thing,
one word, can have its meaning
abstracted beyond my control,
and spiral into an infinite number
of "what-ifs."

what's also fun is autumn
in its richness and volume,
skylines dyed shades of cinnamon, pear, and apple. supple warmth
and deep comfort.

both bring foreboding if you let them, so the answer is to never.

If I come to you I will be unriddled,
singing and shot through with
poetry. My gift will be the rings
around my soul, the songbirds
and the winds of Jupiter, warm
touched my arms and the
long wait of my legs.

If you come to me be it on
a Monday when you are
at your best and relaxed.
Bring me the scent of musk,
the water gobleted in crystal
for my waiting lips.

We will clasp the future as if
it was Young.  The breeze

on our faces

blows over

the carved vows

on the birchwood

tree.


Caroline Shank
April 2, 2023