Soothsayer

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

Author: stevekuusisto

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