That was a different dream, not the one last night where you couldn't
get the door unlocked.  The other
dream was when we walked east
on Capitol Dr. toward the water.

We explored the caves,
the hidden grottos of Lake
Michigan.  We walked so far with
torn experience and
unforgiven memories.  The sky
dimmed in the late afternoon.
We tried to reach each other
in the fading red moments before
awakening.

Last night you couldn't get to me.
The locks were made up of the
Crucifixion and a nun kneeled
before me.  You were frocked
out in gray and threw kisses.

We woke in the same bed where
you vanished quietly to your
whispers of regret.
I remain unseen and unloved.
A torrent of feeling sprang from my
soft and sorry, lonely gray bed.

Caroline Shank

I woke up on your sixtieth birthday
And realized I’ve been with you
For half your life!
Yet to me it seems sometimes
No more than the blink of an eye,
No more surprising than a sigh.
Yet then, I think of the joy
The kindness and love
You have given me as naturally
As you might breathe.
Then the aching passion that began
Long ago, now burnished with time
Still burns like the fire inside a jewel!
And each day seems like a hundred years
In which I hold you even when you aren’t near.
I would wish for another half of all you are,
But then I realize, that would never
Be enough.