What Was
A black fly walks across my glass,
tastes where my lips just touched.
It spies me, and thinks,
Do you sting like a bee?
Cast an eye across this garden.
Vines limp as ghostly chains.
Seeds blown away with the sand.
Tomatoes hang like stunned eyes.
Summer slipped away,
just like rain through a net.
Either too hot, or too cold,
always too wet, or too dry.
The well went deeper and
deeper, it’s a thread-worn
poet gone dry. Worn out
words that won’t stay.
Autumn is pronounced:
What was.
for Sunday Whirl #469
[words: rain net seeds chain sand glass spy well deep think send stay] © Misky 2020
It's Still Life 