April Elegy

Snow in the branches
The sun with hands
Ready to be born

Always what happens
Is more than we can carry

As a child I harvested
Black currants with shears
Now I see them again
Scissors, cold among wet leaves

Someone has to sing so I do
Beside the hole, my father’s grave

Author: stevekuusisto

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