When I remember kindness…

I think of childhood
With its playthings

That is, I understand
How joy promised

Was not kind
For other children

Were not kind
My blindness

Was a compartment
Where I waited

While days unfolded
Joy is to kindness

As a moth to a lamp
And yet goodwill

Survives in the dark
Speaks any language

Or holds quietly
So its not a promise

This affection
For others, strangers

Animals—but
Something better

A surprise
As in nature

When we find
Things are never

Really still
And you feel

Your heart throbbing
Along with the shadow

Inside your shadow
And how it grows

Author: skuusisto

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