It's Still Life

September’s Song

Summer’s deathbed; here comes autumn. It’s an old woman’s bed, where the air yawns wide as ancient oak and its crisp leaves untether, glowing in clingy vicious colours. The soil smells of wet dog, and the forest drips of dew that smells of liniment. Tomato vines hang greyish limp and weary. Pickles sink into salty brine. Summer’s debris clings in the puddles of rain – they float, they sink, moult and rot. An old woman walks September into October, her knobbly stick holds her diminishing bones, and she walks autumn’s collection into winter just as she walked youthful bounty into thinning agedness.

there’s rain on her head
and veiled clouds in her eyes
raise your hands, and laugh

dVerse Haibun Monday: September’s Song. Image is my own, created with AI technology. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #AI_art on Twitter