You placed a flower in my
hand. We looked at each
other in the haze.
I gave you a long poem written
with the heat of our breaths
last bloomings.
It was in the days of our beach
that we walked through to
the last door. Time
burned where the ink
of my song, snug in the
bend, sang its last
goodbye.
"Time was, red was the color
of afternoons pressed
against us. " I wrote that to you,
a tribute to love and to laughs,
and to syllables.
I am 75 now and read with
the cat on my lap. She
knows the art of songs
sung in the wind,
with every sigh of her lovely
brindle colored breast.
Tomorrow she will bring
me no nearer to you
who sang, once, to me
in the
russet sand.
Caroline Shank
1.29.2022