above

tiny little bird

holding one seed.



the trees were dead along the road.



some one sings.



the wren.

The brilliance of the
ladybug landing on
my white coffee cup
as the wind blows through
the bedroom window
I think of ee cummings
and Buffalo Bill,
Mom, Dad, and the
rest of the dead.
The computer calls to me.
But I won't answer.
It's the Sabbath, and the
rest will do us all some
good.

To wait

To wait is to be suspended
On a slender thought.

Not gossamer but iridescence's

Shines.

Your face in the morning

Wet

Slowly the question asks
will
you?

The days and years lie in
rubble

Tomorrow's dust
degenerates,

Yesterday's
bleed from the
pain of unuse.

To wait is a crowded cellar,
sour wines,

You and your
sapiosexual
5 th act.

It  is
Another dead end

itself that

staines the
floors of
Cellar

silences



Caroline Shank
March 30, 2025

Bathing in a stream
Water cool crisp and cleansing
Nature at its best

To be a piece of paper
Thrown at sea,
Crumpled—furiously
Unable to be.

To row against
Undaunted waves,
Tall as mountains,
Jagged as nails.

Oh, to wish
To greet the sand,
Just to meet
Some reader's hands.