Thinking of Randall Jarrell

I’m growing old now Randall
And all I want is a little oakum
To put myself back together.

I’ve lived in a broken way—
A soul lost in a field of flowers
Waiting for kindnesses.

I swear I’m trying to get to the point.
The spruce in my yard
Looks like the hand of a clock.

Alright. That’s about it.
“The ways we miss our lives are life.”
Almost autumn, I can smell leaves

Touching the very air.
Blindness is a perfection.
I can live in this voice.

Author: skuusisto

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