It's Still Life

Moonlight Over the Attic of the World

the old woman sets a cup of chamomile
by the window for the wandering ghosts.
the cat, in a rare moment of charity,
does not knock it over.

the crow tucks one last stolen comma
into its nest of scraps.
the robin—bless its resurrected heart—
snores softly in the hatbox,
dreaming of worms and second chances.

and somewhere beyond the page,
her grandchildren are already dreaming
of an old woman who packs storms
in her suitcase,
and bribes border guards with mischief
and a jar labelled “London Rain, 1868.”

sleep well, she whispers to the world.
the stories will keep vigil—
armed with feather, fang,
and just enough mischief
to keep the dark on its toes.