It's Still Life

I.
IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS THAT STIR A STORM

Like those things that make us smile.
Like life’s annoyances, too well we know.

You hold your finger, crimson bubbling,
perhaps, you say, I should slice the tomatoes.

I adore cabbage creamed and parsleyed,
you want brown gravy and new potatoes.

I prefer soft-edges and floppy pastels,
you plant boisterous thorny roses.

You read only mysteries and crime,
I read and write poetry and prose.

You say I suppose. I say I suppose.
We have that in common, I suppose.

Storms on the horizon, it weathers the sky.
The garden hums, and the air sings disquiet.

 
II.
A BIRD ON A BRANCH

One grey and wind-swayed morning
One blackbird spilled a lovely note.

Its blackness vivid as its song
Dark and inky, every note.

In an oak tree there it sat
writing lyrics for each note.

Leaves of curtains where it hid
Rang out love songs, so I note.

Its melody ruptured like a bolt
A cat, a cat, meowed a note.

That cat that hid amongst the leaves
That bird did not take one note.

To nature I am small as stones
Caution watches over me.

for dVerse a Contemporary Ghazal ©️ Misky 2019