Blind, I imagine the butterflies—
Mornings so clear,
As if Buddha
Has washed my windows

Or course I want to telephone my dead mother
Tell her about tiny transparent flying specks of sun
Instead I draw circles on a birch with my finger
The marks say, land here my friends

Author: skuusisto

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

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