When I look through the trees at the park near our house they are all pretty much the same as when we started coming here—like me, a bit older but still the same, mostly unnoticed. And the kids were so small we kept them packaged in bundles whenever we went out, not much different than when they began, in the warm dark.

I read a poet’s last collection before he died, knowing he was close—hearing him work through it, making peace with his leaving: the rationale, it’s really a return. And now with the turning inward, all the poets come out like late summertime frogs and crickets, croaking, sawing their legs together, coaxing me to sleep…

The mountain ash’s orange fruit is now ready for the birds to harvest, and they leave the remains in the grass uneaten, the same way each year. I cut the last roses for the window sills and soon, we’ll move the patio furniture to the garage. The lake has gone gray again, and the trees a dark green. Poets die the same as anyone, they just talk about it more.

Categories: death, prose, writing

Tags: autum, autumn poetry, equinox, journal writing, Memoir, mid-life crisis, nature poetry, poetry, short form, short prose, William Pearse writer