Forest Floor

Try all morning
Picking mushrooms in rain
And laughing—slow
Clumsy man
Ancestors beside him
Ferns ants black shoe prints
I take a bird as counsel
Say to my dead father
Something is coming
Hymn in mind
On a long trembling bridge
One migrates backwards
Into the emptying self
Yes I wanted to go some place
Walking with the slyness of good faith

Author: skuusisto

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