It's Still Life

At Her Window

A woman at the window,
her face pale as weak light.
She might be crying, or not,
I don’t know, but she stares,

oddly long and unblinking.
And if I could pull her away
from the rain blurred pane,
we’d talk of pleasant things.

About strawberry jam,
or the coming of spring,
or how to make dumplings,
or how her husband died.

And I would tell her that
we are surprisingly alike,
and perhaps then I would
see her in a different light.

AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney