It's Still Life

A few weeks ago, a flail mower came through the lane. This is what remains.

And After the Flail Mower, the Wind Said …

the earth knows grief—
how it pools in your palms like rainwater,
heavy with severed roots
and the startled silence of nests
torn open too soon.

You are allowed this sorrow—
because the world tries to numb
what every blade of grass remembers:
that even the smallest life
etches its shape.

So listen—
beneath the diesel fumes,
under the butchered stems,
where mycelium threads stitch
their rebellion.

The bees will return—
not from forgetfulness,
but from the stubbornness of spells
whispered into soil.

And you will not paint
destruction,
but the after—
the first defiant dandelion
splitting the pavement.

Grieve.
Then rise.
The earth needs those
who ache with her.

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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 2006-2025.