It's Still Life

The Bones of Winter

The bones of winter
rattle ear to ear,
and the ghost of my mother
is knitting in her chair.

Her spine is cold as October,
and it descends on me,
it is an emotional colour,
the light of its juice which

won’t go away until March.
It glitters of frost in the air,
and I feel the bones of winter –
it’s like stopping a train.

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.