Morning

They sleep, they dream, they vanish
The men and women
Fir cones underfoot in my neighborhood
A toothache, a dropped memory
I promise, Dear Jesus I’ll be your envoy
But not this morning
And not this morning
Will I become a beautiful rose
They sleep, they dream…
My friend will I ever see you again
I hear, through the trees,
Someone building a house

Author: stevekuusisto

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