The Half-Finished Garden

Up early, dead father in mind, walking my dog

Thinking: “don’t moan, keep going”

Last summer’s plantings under snow

How many seasons remain?

Challenge, inventing hopeful names

Along the road—Locust Dharma

Branch to branch Bodhisatva….

Oh I could kiss you Transtromer—

Darkness against my cheek

Your Haydn, not mine, playing

Under my feet… Piano

For native country

How does it go?

Author: skuusisto

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