It's Still Life

Everywhere Poems don’t have a subject. They have a starting point and follow wherever attention leads. It’s — go for a walk and see where you end up.

A Kitchen Window Poem

there’s a bird
in the birdbath,

wings emptying
the bowl,

rain falling
through the trees.

A grey squirrel
crosses the fence,

its tail
a thickened brush —

annoyed

as only a squirrel
knows annoyance.

A thought brushed my palm,

then scattered
like a startled bird.

How long,
I wondered —

pistil,
stigma
of a flower.

How long

until the small names

begin loosening
their grip,

until detail

becomes weather,
and rain
and wing,

and movement
through leaves.

The squirrel pauses.
The bird returns.

Somewhere
beyond the garden,
a cloud passes
through something

I almost
follow.

---

Reena’s Prompt: include “A thought brushed my palm, then scattered like a startled bird.”

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