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 ›
writing
Out the other end
I came out the Enchanted Valley the day after I got in, 27 miles (43.4 km) round trip. My phone said I hadn’t gone that far in step count since my last trip to the Hoh River. I ached in… Read More ›
Up the enchanted valley
I sat there by the bees in the lupine with my knees muddy and the birds singing and the sound of some far-away traffic like a low tide going out. I chewed on an apple in a nonthinking way and… Read More ›
Future letters to our former selves
We came down to the end of June and I hung the flag for the Fourth. I had the summer off from work, and wouldn’t accept any new contracts until September. That gave us the flexibility to see Lily whenever… Read More ›
The past imperfect
Most nights Lily would leave the bedroom window open and I’d look up to it in the mornings when I let the dog out. I’d look up to her window and consider her inside, Christmas lights on the ceiling, glimpses… 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 