Heard, Not Seen

Only Bread, Only light

 

I mend the fence

With goldfinches

And while I work

Knowing how little there is—

Summer,

Primal tendons,

How does one say it?

My death talks

With the birds

Above me

Who call back

That I might hear.

Author: skuusisto

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

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