The Old Samurai
On his white sheets and pillow
stir the faces and those dead
blank eyes and liquid last words.
On his robe, silk stitched birds
and a flood of cherry blossoms.
On the table, a tea ceremony waits.
On his face, uplifted, winter falls,
watery eyes as he remembers
youthful evenings in the village.
On his head a few sparse hairs.
An open window. Chattering birds.
Gods of the sea, flow gold koi.
This is a tea ceremony for days
of hands, light and fast. A sword.
When death was his fortune, and
he keeps watch until his days end.
Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.
It's Still Life 
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