It's all behind me now. The
days of wine and roses, and you.
I was young in the tender
of my years.
You were curled and red, the
tight nights of summer dimmed
my eyes. The breezes
of June were wrapped embraces.
In these, my last years here, I dwell
on summer. No matter the cold of
Wisconsin, it's the brilliance of
then that I rub on my face like
fine oil. I remember the incense.
The musk of your scent
lingers.
We were a tune that played for
the span of one summer. It
is as strong in my memory as ever
were your hands on my face.
Once when I loved you,
almost fifty summers ago, I
promised I wouldn't hurt you.
But you left me to
broken poems.
I am wooden in my age
and I dance with hard
shoes. The days are
long and the nights
no longer sing.
Caroline Shank