Origin of Dreams

What if a poem was in your left wrist

As it was for Emily Dickinson?

Please don’t think I’m glib.

Poems occur where soft tissue,

Delicate bones and ligaments

Strain together

Without our notice,

Like the imagined wings

We sketch for horses.

I didn’t see you all day—

My love, you went far.

Author: skuusisto

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