It's Still Life

Leafless

The garden.
It’s just some wet mud and a magpie that keeps its tail up.
There’s an obvious wrinkle in this landscape.

Rain dribbles off the gutter, leaves stuck up there.
Again.
I suppose.
Although the trees have been leafless for months.

Snowdrops bloomed on Monday,
and then slugs nipped the blossoms off the stems.
My heart was stabbed by that,
it’s nature of course,
and I shouldn’t expect more.

It’s winter.
It’s February.
Nancy’s birthday month, she says.

My wedding anniversary also: 44-years.
At least
I think it is.

We celebrated it
on the wrong day for years
and years
until we filled out a visa form.
Really?
We got it wrong.
Not surprised.

We celebrate it correctly nowadays,
even though we don’t adhere to crick in the neck things.
Sometimes I can’t remember my own age.
I don’t really care.
No one cares.
Nor does anyone else who I care about,

because a tree is a tree
even when it’s leafless.

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Written for Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday: “heart”. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney @LindaGHill