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.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.