It's Still Life

An Everywhere Poem

Tuesday:
wind rushed the sparks.

a snap,
and combustion
of sun-baked grass.

it’s the scent of charred
dried herbs.
smoke bitting
bright, and mineral dry.

it’s to swallow up
a dusty road —
it’s a ghost cough
lingering in the throat.

sirens
pluck at the air
in two-tones.

---

Friday:
the fire has gone
before I find it.

only its mouth
remains —

black grass,
the bitter green
of something
burned too quickly.

smoke has teeth.

it catches
behind my nose,
leaves grit
at the back of my throat.

somewhere beyond the trees

sirens trade
two notes
back and forth.

then wind —

lifting the last
of what burned

into the air
I breathe.

---

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.

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