The afternoon sky looks pregnant but it’s too early to tell. And the tall trees reach to tickle its belly with stick fingers drawn by a kid. The dishwasher and drier are running, and there’s a pot on the stove on a low boil. There’s a hum in the house, and both pets are napping. Last night it rained, and this morning the first leaves touched down on their backs like they’d just been delivered. A new kind of birth in death: transform then cover me, fall.

Categories: death, prose, writing

Tags: autumn poetry, journal writing, pacific northwest, prose, Rainer Maria Rilke, short form, William Pearse writer