At twenty she came to me
Saying: you will write books
And some people will read them
But you’ll not be happy
Life will become
A muffled clamor
You’ll be foreign
To yourself
Like a man
Who speaks
The glaucous dialects
Of herdsmen
And all I could hear
Was “books”
Not understanding
The loneliness
To come
And the crying out
For trees
To rescue me

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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