It's Still Life

Dear Gran,

It is January, and the garden freezes and thaws, and then freezes again as if tortured in inches by phantom kicks.

The herbs mostly survive: rosemary remains vigorous, although the sage yielded to a hoar frost and snow, dying a valiant death – my warrior sage – my wise old sage, and the basil succumbed to clouds of gnats, so I buried it in the compost bin, where its affection blooms with the rotting kitchen waste … and the hawthorn is setting buds, yes, it’s early, but its roots are old and deep, and a late winter storm will not stricken it too horribly.

And as you always told me, solitude is a comfort, although it’s misunderstood as antisocial, or loneliness, or a desolate road to depression, but it’s not – really, not for me. My solitude is a winter bird’s calibrated music, a dialect that sings endlessly in my ears, like strangers flying through to somewhere else — and I found myself wishing to do the same recently, although that’s resolved now, but it’s in the air, and it can chill.

I still count your heartbeats like the ticking gears of your old clock, I still wear your ring, and I still burn like firewood. My muse comes and goes like stepping stones from one month to another, and I’d say that I miss you, but you are a constant presence that I bump into at unexpected times … but may I ask: Are you happy?

Your loving granddaughter.

Written for RDP “letter” and 6SS “kick”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.