He lay on his back on the sofa like he always did, looking out the window. Birds flocked around the orange berries, limbs flopped over, leaning down. A hearty rain. The grass needing cut. With the pandemic they had gone… Read More ›
writing
On the 5-7-5
Morning’s solemn moon sliver of your former selflow lidded and crude
Last Saturday night in Wallingford
It is late afternoon on a Saturday in late September, early fall, and it all could be normal again if it weren’t for the masks and jugs of sanitizer in the entryway of the cat cafe here in Wallingford. The… Read More ›
September’s riches
It was the first day of fall, and time to check the plantains. The plantains were from Ecuador, the size of cartoon bananas, Mickey Mouse phones, the old land-line kind. I had them in a paper bag to speed the… Read More ›
Listening to the song Dead Souls while waiting at the park and ride
The end of the season is sloppy, everything dead, on its side or overgrown. It is the in between, one season squeezed out by another, neither in their rightful place. I’ve pulled out the foxglove stalks and laid them on… Read More ›
The bees’ knees
The bees are back to harvest the fruit of the flower, to pick through Jupiter’s beard and return to their angular rooms. And when they do, for that brief space between days, what’s it like in the hive with each… Read More ›
Memento mori
It is late August and I am 7 going on 8, never quite old enough in years or in looks. My dad is a school teacher and my mom works at the bank so I stay with my grandparents for… Read More ›
Late summer serenade
In the morning I go outside to smell the ground because it rained in the night, the first time in months, and the rain is a novelty that won’t stay that way for long, as novelties do. And it has… Read More ›
Image of the full moon one August
There is no time like never. In fact, never is the absence of time, its imagined opposite. And so right now, this is a time that would never happen: I’m on the beach in the middle of the night in… Read More ›
Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free
I miss the mornings, when there’s no one around. When I would buckle my belt as a state trooper would his holster and start my day sharp as an arrow, aimed at the center. But there is no one to… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 