It's Still Life

Weathering

The sky is thin. Trim.
Buff colour, and spilling
down in kidskin soft mist.
Summer breezes could
only hope to be so soft,
so still. To fill winter’s
promise with bone china
white views, cold as a
sharp needle morning.
This unknowable day of
borrowed speech, crutches
for a weathered limp,
stand up walking sticks.
I keep to the trail,
keep from tripping on
snippets of goodbyes
and good riddance.
Life is too short for
unpredictable bridges.

Sunday Whirl words: view, needles, breeze, sky, mist, spill, bridge, still, trail, trip, trim, fill