It's Still Life

And After A Time

She settles
in a small thatched hut
with a platform
to sleep …

no need for more.
Her days are an evened echo of walking.
Goats. To water.
To food. Some days

come disguised,
as a volcano, or a caged hawk,
or a jungle,
or purified water         …     or freedom.

One day she’ll be immortal, she says.
One day she’ll be someone’s ancestor.

Her narrative
is inscribed in her eyes. Feast,
famine, and old voices,
but nevertheless

she sleeps
through noises that would keep
most of the world awake –
heat clad trees cursing the gods,

the crunch of bone,
celestial dust,
buckling air,
and the moon running free.

And she keeps
her conversation for the goats.

Her goats, now. Each one has its own
voice, and they speak
long on everything.

Your silence is a kind of death, he says.
Words are sounds, she replies.
It was another month before

she spoke again,
and that was to say
that she was filled with milk
and child.

He took the Miracle Man’s medicine
from his pocket, and
dropped it into a simmering
pot of broth.

She watches him from the doorway.
For safety, he says,
and slowly stirs the pot.

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227-words/Reading time -1 minute. #6 (draft) of The Goatherd. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.