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: existentialism, life, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, prose, short form, William Pearse writer