One Way

A few nights back
I dreamt of Robert Frost
Which meant a visit
To childhood
New Hampshire nineteen-sixty
Me blindly leaning
Into his pages
West running brook
Wood-cuts
Vision loss at five
So in love
With poems
The idea of them
Rare as animals from afar
Rain at the window
The walking wind

Author: skuusisto

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