It's Still Life

The August House

For years, it was our August house,
perched on a yellow sand beach,
ringed by wild roses and tall grasses.

Breezes drew low taffeta tones from
summer blooms, as Dad slapped paint
at canvas before the sky collapsed.

There were easels, and pigments,
smell of turpentine, wet swimsuits,
and lemon cake in the afternoon.

That was the summer I learned
all my multiplication tablets, and
that Sinbad sailed the seven seas.

I always left seashells in the pantry,
like a snake that leaves behind its skin.

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.