That oak tree, the one when I looked up through its branches seemed to fill the sky in June, is now at August’s end. Leaves falling from limb and twig, its earthly-ways departing from their perfect place. Leaves the colour of a young girl’s brown eyes. Leaves blowing in through the open kitchen door, drifting across the oak plank floor as if seeking reunion and reconnection, flying blind on the last warm days of worn-out summer. And I take cuttings of flowers, hardwood herbs, divide bulbs and tubers, and work manure into hardened clay, and hope to resurrect spring with a summer funeral pyre.
Truth is mystic script
Creeping mist and silent rain
Last of leaves will fall
Written for dVerse Poets, a Haibun about the change of seasons. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.
It's Still Life 
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