I close the old novel I first read in my youth.
The one I have read several times since.
Its word hoard glimmers from the page
softly as the afternoon rain
sifting through the fresh leaves out the window.
Fine as inherited lace.
Human as a visited grave.
The day will come, sooner than later,
when I close the book for the last time
and not know it.
Mike Dillon lives in a small town on Puget Sound northwest of Seattle.
With his wife, he travels. He often writes about the places he has been. Not travel stories, but stories of place.
He and his wife travel so lightly that once a European customs agent questioned their Americanness.