Wait Until Dark

To cut out your sight and go inward lets you tune in to the small sounds that make your world. In the green house, the creak of the structure expanding with the heat, the dribble of basketballs and children’s talk, the time of naps, seasoned with birdsong and wind chimes, a dog’s bark, Sunday.

Eyes closed, memories ricochet like waterfall on rock, pulling in more, collecting on a ledge here, spilling over to join the succession and drain, then start again.

The mind is an open box of styrofoam shells on the wind: close your eyes, close the box, look inside.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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