It's Still Life

Weird …

And there she is. My grandmother.
Those unmistakable eyes and a mutely stare.

… and she says,
“How strange the wind that blows ashes
through the sea as if on its breath.

Wind sucking at windowpanes,
soft as butterfly wings or an echo.

What a strange thing, wind –
it can blow down your house
or smell sweet as spring.”

And then I wake, and she is gone, like a book
that’s returned to its shelf for another day.

Written for Writers’ Digest Day 9 of the Poem-a-Day Challenge, “weird” is the word. 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.