It's Still Life

Baptism in Green Ink

The forest pours itself
into your lungs—
petrichor sacrament,
rain’s wet loom weaving
your hair with the oak’s
slow, conspiratorial gossip.

Cicadas drive golden nails
into the hour’s spine.
You, half-woman, half-wanting,
let thunder tune your ribs
to its grey-tongued timpani.

And the green—
oh, that vicious green—
how it sculpts your mind
into a cathedral of moss,
how shadows lick their teeth
before kneeling to bite.

You whisper:
…. come.

The wind arrives
wearing your grandmother’s
fingerprints,
carrying a blade
forged from every morning
you almost forgot
who you are.

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.