This life is a jacket we’ll take off soon

003I pulled a Walt Whitman, tripping-out on my back in the grass, with ants crawling up my arms and neck, my ears full of birdsong and dogs barking, something flying by and stopping on my head, plastered to the earth like a fly caught under a coat of paint —

To love the earth and be a part of it, to leave my silhouette on the blades of grass, the outline of my body with the weeds and left-behind leaves, a flicker in the breeze unseen, unnoticed, just a moment I can transcend myself and be reminded.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in death and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a comment!

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

You are commenting using your 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.