It's Still Life

A Black Bare Twig

I am whiteness and droning drear,
woolly and wet,
a slipped cold mask,
a drumming ear.

Huddle ’round your woodburners,
seek that whirring fan
of warmth against your skin.

Garb your hat and scarf and socks.
I am the ice underfoot,
your skates cut
and track my spine, your

children embed me with laughter.
I am a dark galaxy,
winter’s chariot.
Gather ’round your lamp,

and hang a kettle o’r the fire.
I am winter, rising cold
from the sunken depths.
I am that black, bare twig.

written for dVerse Poets “A Blizzard of the Self” and Linda Hill’s JusJoJan for 18 January. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney @LindaGHill @dversepoets