It's Still Life

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. Letting a foxglove grow wild in your garden is a way to kneel. Your dignity is not in your command, but in your constant, devotion to the love that moves the sun and the stars.

The Foxglove in My Garden

Speckled throat.
Bell-tower of the fae,
you who arrived not by my hand,
but by some
green desire

wind’s covenant with soil,
here, may you stay,

your roots, drink in shadows,
your stalk, will hold the sun.
This ground, your sanctuary.

When you ring your silent peals,
when the breeze
combs through your spent leaves,
I hear the old tongue —

the one spoken
before names,
before spells,
before sorrow.

You are a fae’s thought
in the mind of the earth,
and I am its humble witness.

So grow,
and seed where you will.
My garden is not a cage,
but a crossroads where

you may return next year,
or in a lifetime,
under a different moon,
under a different self of mine.

I will know you,
and I will say again —
Welcome home.

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Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.