I love the poets who can look at a thing & tell you all about it.

I am not that kind of poet. The hornet at the window is just a hornet, even as he fights the spider. 


I put an empty cup on the table. I call the sunrise a holiday from dreams. 


I am not clever though I know a good deal about remorse. 


There are five crows circling in the fallen leaves.  They have nothing else to do  

but to walk in rhythm with their appetites. 


As a friend of mine might say, there’s nothing perfect here that I know of. 


A scattering of clouds arrives from the east. I am glad they are clouds & not ideas.



Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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