It's Still Life

Play it low — let the heat sing first, and let the porch remember.

August Porch

August —
the air sits thick as syrup,
a dry spell stitched with thunder,
heat tumbling from the sky,
pressing down like velvet.

On her shoulder, the baby
stirs and fusses,
a song spilling from her lips
like a half-remembered hymn,
gentle as rocking chair creak.

That slow smile —
Memphis-summer-slow,
rising like steam from red clay,
sweet as a lie,
true as hunger.

The radio hums molasses-time,
a lightning thread
itching the skin of the air,
but even the storm bows low
to this porch of quiet.

And when sleep comes —
brief, merciful —
the mother folds herself inward,
trusting the heat to hold them both,
for now, safe.

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.