Now the earth breathes in and we with it too, we lie down. In the spring the earth breathes out, the blooms and the blades, the stamens and spores land where they will. But now is the time of repose and response, of reflection: to fall… Read More ›
poem
Father and daughter
One day you will notice what the days do, how they curl and build and fall apart like the waves, most times indistinct, sometimes disappearing like socks in a drawer you can’t find, they fold over on themselves and get separated… Read More ›
The lake waves look like hands on the shore
Now the lake advances in creeping hands along the shore and the lifeguard chair is empty, there’s the threat of showers, the tree boughs move with the underwater look of deep-sea creatures in slow motion and the frog beneath our… Read More ›
Up Red Marble Quarry Road, Waitts Lake, Washington
I thought it was the shadow of a butterfly but it was just a leaf falling, they’ve started gathering on the ground. More days in the hammock with just the sound of wind chimes and jets, birds, kids: realizing I… Read More ›
I restarted a song called ‘Song with no ending’
When you died a million deaths did you notice any, or did you just build over the same places?
Snow song from a train heading north
Sideways snow outside the window, all of us bundled with our gadgets, our books, our friends, the din of soft German going through tunnels, beneath bridges, the ivy, the vines, the limbs cut to the nub: I sit on the train and… Read More ›
Blog posts are bread crumbs the birds can’t eat
The look of the sky today started pink but ended gray, and as I went walking I worried, did I have enough to break off to find my way, or would I get lost in the forest and the others with so little,… Read More ›
Love and moss during wartime
Plaintive, silent moss that exists but for a balance between water and light: Can we appreciate it for what it is and ever stop rearranging things?
Rebirth of a shirt
When the undershirt’s worn out, it’s conformed to its owner and lost all likeness of itself then may it be put in the can and forgotten, to know it’s run its course and can return. Let me not grow nostalgic… Read More ›
The world of nameless birds
The cemetery birds sing a more soulful tune in the dark of the tree’s last leaves, like ghosts, most pass by unseen, real for just a moment, it seems. And the cemetery rocks look the same as any other stones, the… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 