Confession

I want to be the sort of poet whose words build homes for people,

Who reaches agreement with granite and oak to come near—

Habitation is a restlessness among all things, homes require magic.

If possibly there was anything I could do

To give you warmth, well I’d do it.

In my world most things are hidden save for my heart.

Author: stevekuusisto

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