It's Still Life

From a Sea-Salted Dock

We wore black.
Wore our pearls
and affection, spoke in

whispered words
that left us tongue-tied.

The sky watched,

tasted our tears,
and stirred our petrichor,

calm-scented
our grey-fringed hair.

We stood on a sea-salted dock,
and released his ashes
to the air
on the coldest day

February had ever seen.

Fishing boats iced and rocking,
frayed sails wind-stiff,
and slapping the air.

There with empty eel traps
and torn shrimp nets.
So empty.

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