Growing old talking to myself…

Growing old talking to myself
Hands inflexible
Reaching for chestnuts
Cold river of childhood
A boat ride in Finland
A girl with golden hair
Played a flute
Something something
I say its winter
There’s nothing to do
This much I know
Night doesn’t push us
But the days…

Author: skuusisto

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