The last day of May, and the wind is a concussion. A howling violence. A motorcycle shriek. Leaves snap away from the day. But the wild garlic, its pearly blooms and barreling scent, it refuses intimidation. The rain comes in spines. In bricks. Sharp. A growl from a thousand miles out at sea. And a robin sits on the fence. Sings. Red breast against spring green. Its music is like stars rushing at the sky. It sings and sings, and then it’s ferried off in the wind.
We are grains of sand
Waltzing the floor in the wind
Be still. Still my wings.
Written for Poetic Bloomings Haibun “Subject Matters #1 “Nature”. Artwork is created using AI Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.
It's Still Life 
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