It's Still Life

27 November:
It’s still morning. Time slows when there’s no external noise. No radio. No telly. No talking. No music … except for the shallow sound of his breathing as he reads the Sunday’s paper. Sunday always becomes Monday, if you judge the date by a newspaper. Saturday is thicker than weekdays. Sundays less so than Saturday. But still, Sunday stretches into Monday.

There’s a brown slug inching along the thick moss. An accordion stretch and compress. I’ll leave it to eat what it wants. Winter gardens are a feast for those trying to survive. The robin, who sits beside my shoe when I’m digging in the garden, just flew into the laurel bush. That bush is so large that it’s nearly hollow inside. If I were a child, I’d spend all my days playing in there.

Teardrops stretch long, and fight gravity on the windowsill. Even the windows find winter’s view sorrowful.

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