April (Elegy)

As a child I harvested
Black currants with shears

Now I see them again
Scissors, cold among wet leaves

Snow in the branches
The sun with hands

Ready to be born
Always what happens

Is more than we can carry
Someone has to sing so I do

Beside the hole, my father’s grave

Author: skuusisto

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