It's Still Life

That Dog

She was light, you know,
the way snow is bright even at night.
And those soft eyes of hers,
filled with the language of moons.

She was a treasure,
and she’s buried under the hellebore.
My treasure.
My buried treasure.

These poems/prose are draft versions, written in participation of Miz Quickly’s prompts, November poem-a-day challenge. The aim: to produce a chapbook for submission. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Images are ©Misky, and created using AI-Midjourney.