"windworn" poems
.
I cannot rival your blue eyes
Or the whirling
winds of your infinite skies.
Windworn leaves tumble at
your step. Winter turns to
summer where you are.
Walk to me slowly that I may
savor the trail you leave on
your way to my page.
I write you into time. I hear
the bells ripple.
I have seen you travel in dreams.
You leave me always wanting
you more than there is air above
me or ground below.
Stay where I am for now.
Use me with love.
Your song.
Caroline Shank
11.19.1 9
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 5:52 AM UTC
That old man working the fields outside
His old, windworn house.
His granddaughter in her light blue dress
On the swing in the garden,
Cotton flowing behind her like some tail
Tracing a comet of innocence.
Her dog, only twice the size of the
Two squirrels climbing the trunk
Of the tree her swing swings from,
Yapping at her, either for attention
Or in appreciation of the love she
Must, must feel for it.
Two seconds, and they're gone.
Driving on.
My girl inflating her yoga ball
On the living room floor, throwing
Her hair back and smiling, dizzy from
Oxygen spent.
She passes it to me, you do the rest,
But I'm too busy writing about her.
She laughs with her whole self.
Stares back at me when she catches
Me staring first. What? she'll giggle, and
As she stands up and moves towards me,
Still
Staring,
I see that this poem is ending. Two
Seconds.
She's still
Here.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
In the next minute I will breath forty three times, and I will blink twenty.
In the next hour fifty eight people would have driven by, riding the highway to a place unknown.
In the next day I will awake ready to face the challenges of life and school.
In the next week school will be done and we will taste the sweet dew of complete freedom.
In the next month I will have adventures far and wide, spreading my arms wide to catch the spirit of time.
In the next year I will be older, I will enjoy other things and be much more experienced.
In the next 50 years I will be 65, the world beginning to fade around me and lose the luster it once held for young eyes.
In the next century I will have long since passed, no-one lives forever. The only sign of me will be a windworn grave and stories passed down to children I never had the chance to meet.
In the next thousand years I no longer exist. My name will never pass the lips of any being upon the Earth, all who knew me will be dead and gone, without stories to tell of me I will fade.
In the next hundred years I will finally fade, but in the next hour I will smile.
In the next week I will cry.
In the next year I will live, I will make the most of my time.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC