It's Still Life

Her Cabbage Patch 

Windermere peaks 
are a perfect place to cry, I tell her.
And she is. 

We’re eating breakfast,
and can I hear
the clock tick as  

haired seeds 
of dandelions fly, curl 
on itself, soft as lip balm. 

We are not poor,
but in these times,
we live as though we are, 

so I play the piano and 
you pour cups of tea, 
as pigeons trash the cabbages. 

My music is formless, like words.

It’s her bridal heart, 
the first half of joy is a wave. 
One part of the brain lights up.

She spent her final years 
in an asylum, running 
up and down the hallway,  

and loving peace and quiet,  
when life’s puzzles were easy, 
when saints stared down at you.

Written for dVerse Found Poetry. This poem is created from the first line of the first poem of each month during 2022. I’ll try to add the links tomorrow as it’s time for bed now. ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney @dversePoets