A jarful of days

IMG_8923In the corner of my yard
in the mid-afternoon heat
in my hammock
with Pablo Neruda
between my legs,
my glasses off, bare-chested
and unbathed,
I think about death:
my body a lump
in a sack
swinging here:
all this,
a jarful of days

but you can’t see the insides
when you scrape it
with your knife
until one day,
it just comes
out dry

and there’s no more
to put on your bread

Is this what prompts us to carve
our initials in a tree,
or to tag a blank wall?

Is it the need to preserve
ourselves,

or just
the need
to be heard?

About pinklightsabre

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

9 Responses to A jarful of days

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Yes, and thanks for the other, beautiful comment this morning. So nice! More soon, trying to stay focused on work and it’s hard! Bill

      Like

  1. What’s Pablo Neruda doing between your legs? The backstroke? Love is short. Forgetting is long.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Searing poetry, gentle, deep and soulful my friend 🙂

    Like

  3. We had this huge bucket of Vegemite. Lasted forever, so it seemed. On the weekend the boy’s knife came out with only a smear of the black topping. He was about to chuck it, when I said, no – scrape more carefully, you’ll get a few more sandwiches out of that.

    The difference between Spring and Autumn.

    Liked by 1 person

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