Carol Pearce-Worthington

Keys Lost; Door Locked

I sit outside the door and I wait. Nothing happens. I keep waiting. The nothing that happens grows larger until it occupies the corridor and perhaps beyond. I keep sitting. Waiting. Nothing expands. I can feel that happening. It may reach the East River, the Hudson River, New Jersey. Time passes as I wait. The nothing that's happening goes beyond my known sphere. It fills the universe then the cosmos and the postcosmos to the ear of the maker who is getting a shave and a haircut in a barber shop. Nothing is swept up along with snipped hairs from the floor. Then I find my keys, unlock the door ahead, and go inside – to where everything is.

making tea
sunlight embraces
mother's pitcher