It's Still Life

Warmth

A son hugs his mother,
and her eyes well up.

Too long. It’s been
too long since they shared

warmth in their arms,
love bound by

the luxury of warmth,

like softened butter,
that sort of warmth,

or flannel pyjamas
and cashmere socks,

or warm soft boiled eggs,
and toast with that softened butter.

When did warmth become
a luxury.

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These poems/prose are draft versions, written in participation of Miz Quickly’s prompts. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Images are ©Misky, and created using AI-Midjourney.