In the dark, in the window, in its tiny pot the orchid grows. The angles and edges we hardly notice while the orchid works to inhabit its small space. And for us no different, the quiet stirrings, the browned leaves,… Read More ›
poetry
The back of love
I made a figure-four of my legs, and lay in bed longing for rest. This mattress, the same my mom and stepdad slept on for years. But after he died my mom moved to another room and the mattress remained… Read More ›
Song for Moab dreamers and rocks
Here the soil is red, the color of blasted brick, the grass gone mostly gold with tufts of green. It is all tough in fact, the earth, the look of sheer resilience. For though it implies permanence we know what… Read More ›
For the other parents at the wilderness therapy graduation ceremony
In a lather of memory, in the coffee shop, I splashed the faces of the people I had known for a small time onto my face and thought, how intermingled we all are in this dance, how unnatural it must… Read More ›
On a flight into Durango with Billy Collins
It is not enough for the boy on the plane to get his mom to give her pillow to him He needs her to sacrifice her comfort for him, to prove her love this way And so it is never… Read More ›
Warrior 1
It can be enough actually, this: Just the angle of the day and you doing your best To cup a few handfuls of what it was like No different than wildflowers pressed in a book. Like the one in Scotland… Read More ›
Memento
I saved the lift ticket from that trip to the Alps, saved it because it was written in German with the date stamped on top I don’t know why I saved it, perhaps I thought there’d be a time I… Read More ›
Concourse A
Let me curl up with this book, Let me fold in on myself, Let me carve out a sliver of comfort in the corner Of this goddamned airport Oh to the sounds of the airport waiting to be somewhere else… Read More ›
On the drive to Soaring Eagle state park
The same old men walk the streets at the same time each day Through the fog and birdsong, the runners in their new sweats And the world for what they see is mainly gray, for they look inwards They walk… Read More ›
He not busy being born
Late May the grass by the pond’s grown tall where the frogs like to sing and screw and the song draws the dark down with the dew and we are all awash in it, spring! A medley of smells of… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 