Bending to Grass…

Bending to Grass in the November Dusk

Acorns, cinnamon ferns, old wish
In mind, regrets from spring,
My family dead
Seem near
A dark toad
Hops in tall weeds.
“You will break,”  say the trees
Apple trees long untended
Knowing something
Do you see? they say.
And the language of broken limbs
Is upon us.

Author: skuusisto

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