Oh for these last gray days and new moons. For Orion’s belt in the north, in the night. For our yard leaning on its side and the papery brown fronds hanging down. For the milky sun and messy watercolor blues, for spring’s tentative tracing of the dance floor with its shoes. For this day I sit looking out, looking in, feeling the same: a stirring in these limbs the color of bone and moss-matted stone, when all the world seems draped in gray. Oh how the last bit feels hardest and the time, the days, the sum of our lives slows. How hard the times between the living and the dead we wait. This Saturday I feel it leaking it out of me, a black hole on the calendar where the moon should be.
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Categories: prose
Bill Pearse 
and soon to emerge into the light –
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Love that line, “black hole on the calendar where the moon should be.”
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Good, I really struggled with that piece…then after posting it, wanted to go fuss with it, but thought I need to move on. Glad you liked that line though, “A!”
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What a beaut. Some really great touches like the alliteration of north and night, the rhyme of blues and shoes, the sound of “draped in gray.”
Kind of perfect. Move on is a good idea.
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Cool, thank you Kevin! Forced myself to write, really forced it, and there you go; I’m glad it paid off for you.
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Yes. The PNW in February…”For the milky sun and messy watercolor blues, for spring’s tentative tracing of the dance floor with it’s shoes” = awesome! I’m gonna print this out and paste it on my fridge so I can read it often.
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That’s so stinking cool, I don’t think I’ve ever been printed out on a refrigerator before…thanks! I think I have arrived now, officially 🙂 and thanks for sharing with your FB friends, appreciate it. Bill
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Shared it on FB also.
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Thanks Ilona! Bill
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