the trees watching us
written December 29th, 2020
for Thomas

we walk down the old logging road
the trees watch us pass
noting our presence
our comfort with each other

we make our way to the small stream
and sit on its banks
listening to the sound as it flows past
bouncing over rocks and roots as it goes

i sit with you and listen
to the sounds all around us
and if i listen closely enough
i can hear the trees watching us

whispering to each other about their day
wondering what we will bring
as we pass through their stationary world
their roots entwined under the ground

i feel you beside me
my leg resting against yours
i take ahold of your arm
and lean against you

with you, here
i am at peace
watching the trees
watching us.

My forest
written December 28th, 2020

My forest is the 2 trees
outside my front window

the overstory of my forest
is a prickly ball tree
research says
it is a chestnut or sweetgum tree

the overstory is tall and hearty
giving generous shade in the summer
and raining prickly *****
on the yard in the fall

the understory of my forest
is a dogwood
that blooms gloriously each spring
as it reaches from under the prickly ball tree
for the sun it's greedy sibling hogs

there are forests (and poems)
much more expansive than mine
built more complexly
more often talked about
photographed, written about

but this little 2 tree forest
has been my company
for 20 years now

they are my trees (and my words)
and they are precious to me.

Good poems are like winter
When the fierce wind
Strips trees to X-rays
Nailed to the blinding blue

When the rain scoured air
Cleansed and clear
Pared down to Nothing
Reveals everything

When world, warmth-stripped
Left uncaring, cold
Shakes us awake
From our ambiguous dreams

Good poems are like winter
Much removed, little left
But those few remnants scream
With blood curdling power

Morning drips in like coffee.
I think of you. It is the
hardest time.  I begin the
day in sips. My tongue
burns with greed.

You seep in through the
slats of my sleepy windows.
The day starts with memory.
Your red hair curls
around the sun.  I reach out to
touch you.  I want to kiss
the blue of your eyes across
the table.

I, sadly, drink the dregs of
my morning, wash the azure
off my face and dry my tears
to carry me through to
tomorrow.

Mornings drip in like coffee.
I think of you.

Caroline Shank

I never expected this.  That
in my 70's I would be ink
on a blank page. That my
life's work would be poems
on a shelf, written about
gone people, dead memories.

I never wanted them, the memories, the reflections
stored in old coffee cans.
Waterlogged letters saved
from decay to become themselves decayed.

I will sit forever in my chair,
me and my notebooks fallen
around me, incense laden,
curled around my slippered
feet, hiding the poems pressed
in the pages of my youth.

Caroline Shank

My work
written December 16th, 2020

When I was young
I thought I would have children
work I dutifully showed up for
and a home
maybe not with a white picket fence
but you get the idea.

The children - the home - the work
did not come
I thought I had failed
not tried hard enough
fallen off track.

I did not realize
that life had diverted me
put me on a different path
which I am still discovering.

My children are different from yours
my home and my work
things that only I would recognize
as home and work.

Do you see them?
I will teach them to you
with my words
in these poems.