No Name for It

Morning. Winter rain. The meadow is silent still

as an empty stove. Trees silent. And in the sky

a withered leaf flutters like one of death’s butterflies–

scrapes the window going past. 

My dream last night goes outward like ripples on water.

My brother, long dead, is in a boat, turns with oars,

spins in waves, looks for a sail

by the far shore, against dark pines.

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto