It's Still Life

A Sunset the Colour of Soup

A leafless wood,
and clawing roots on the path

Wind drives a slant of snow at us,
whips around like sharp words,
and our legs feel mortal and fitful
in this soulless winter of centuries,

and he says, Look at those cows.
They look half petrified.

And I agree, it’s late, it’s dusk in this
blueness of cold. And the sun
lights a touchpaper on the horizon.
It burns crimson in a slow sweep.

And I say, Let’s go home, light the fire,
and warm up with some tomato soup.

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