It's Still Life

Spontaneous

That gust of wind was
a sort of natural psychosis.

The sort that artists paint.

A full-breached bleed, and
then easing into composure.

Like shifting a baby from one
hip to the other.

As if to say, Behold,
your glass is still half full.

All that
in a spontaneous burst of wind.

---

©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter