The Years Coming Home to Roost

Here comes poetry, falling like spoons from a shovel,

Eating ever smaller hearts, dropping birch seeds in the wind.

Once on a hill outside Tallinn I ate an imaginary bird.

I sailed all afternoon on a river of vows.

We all have our chosen ones and best places. 

It’s too bad there’s never enough language to go around.

Author: skuusisto

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

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