It's Still Life

Catkins on the witch hazel
have grown long overnight.
Yesterday they were whispers.
Today they are sentences,
fringed and breeze-trembling,
each one a tiny, yellow question
hung out for the wind to answer.

And the birds still think I am morning.

Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.