Down, down

Down went the day, followed by the sun, the night, the moon which rose just a hair of itself, the kids, then us: the weights on the clock: everything goes down. They talk about the ascension, about what happens “after,” but we all end by going down, lowered, covered, burned and blown across some patch of land or water, pushed down in the bed of somebody else’s past, the survivors, those left with the droll task of our remains. Down. And as it went down, the day, the colors softened and gave a good glow. The clock ticked and the heater fan came on, and blew. And I regarded myself and what I had left, what came before, and looked for the moon, just a hair, but what a nice light it cast in that cold, dark, late winter sky.

Categories: death, poetry, prose, writing

Tags: , , , , , ,

12 replies

  1. The drill task of our remains. That’s a keeper.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I loved this slice of light. I had a moment, near the end, where I misread a word. Instead of reading “a good glow” I thought it said “a God glow” and absolutely felt like it fit the descriptions of an end of day or the end of a world or even the end of a life. While you may not have intended it, I am often struck by your word play into thinking of fancies of my own. Thank you for the inspiration. That really is the God glow.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Nice. “Droll task of our remains” 5 out of 5. Hamlet finds Yorick’s skull.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Tis a deep deep well thou dost write from Bill. Lovely.

    Liked by 1 person

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