It's Still Life

August Porch (near-rhyme version)

August —
the air hangs thick as syrup,
a dry spell stitched with thunder,
heat spilling from the sky
like velvet, pulled under.

On her shoulder,
the baby shifts and sighs,
a song on her lips
like a hymn half-wise …

…soft as sugar,
barely sung,
the taste of something
on the tongue.

That slow smile —
Memphis-summer kind —
rises like steam
from red clay lined,
sweet as a lie,
truer than hunger,
a promise too slow
to be torn asunder.

The radio hums
molasses-time,
a thread of lightning,
a breath, a sign.
Even the storm
bows low,
dragging its hem
through the porchlight glow.

And when sleep comes —
brief,
and kind —
she folds like paper
creased and lined,
trusting the heat
to hold them both,

for now,
in time.

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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.