It's Still Life

There’s an assassin at the heart of the winter, it’s a cold muscle, forcing itself on everything. The chairs and the wrought iron table are up against the wall, upended and blown away. Frost covers the grass. Snow covers the roses. Ice covers the creek. Children are skating on it every day. The creek’s only a few inches deep at this time of year. Even the heart of water has shrunk. Assassins, assassins everywhere.

Sun hangs low as birds
Pecking at the grass, the sun
Cold as a muscle

Written for dVerse Poets Haibun Monday “Heart”. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4a). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @dversepoets @midjourney