And so at last it was done, the book of poems I spent all summer with it seemed. They weren’t my poems, but became mine more and more each day. I sat on a chair in the grass and put myself into the book, I let it put itself in me. I never saw the poet but grew used to his voice, I tried to make it part of mine. My head hurt from work and the distances between loved ones, the strange intimacies of the day that go by unrecorded. The blended quality of days, the meaninglessness of life. And yet to feel it there on the edge: the imprint of my glasses, which makes pink moons between my eyes—and the mornings so dark, what’s left of the moon still fills the sky…so dark you can see the implied edge that would make it feel full. I tire from the sound of dry leaves in the wind and a lonesome jet. They are both so far away, so near to fall.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: existentialism, journal writing, Memoir, mid-life crisis, nostalgia, pacific northwest, sentiment, short form, William Pearse writer