It's Still Life

While the Daffodils Open This is not a poem.This is a fist. Again.Again.The word itself is a wound that will not close. Again the rubble breathes its grey prayer.Again the children sort through stonesfor something that was never a mother,never a bed,never a name. I watch daffodils open,yellow throats tipped towardthe same sun that rises…

But that crow—the crow is the one who watches me watch. Balanced on the tip of the picket fence,he tilts his head and lets me seethe whole cold mathematics of his eye. He is not bird.He is a theorem with feathers.A calculation of distance,a proof of patience. And when he flies, it will not be…

Between the Salt and Pepper We used to wave them off at stations. Kisses pressed into collars,wars with foreign namesdissolving into newsprint. Some came home. Some didn’t. Distancewas a mercy then. Now the table is laid. Salt.Pepper.A glass of waterholding the small reflectionof a child’s face. The television speaks. Bombs fall. A street we have…

Catkins on the witch hazelhave grown long overnight.Yesterday they were whispers.Today they are sentences,fringed and breeze-trembling,each one a tiny, yellow questionhung 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.

Snowdrop Arithmetic The church croucheslike something that survivedseveral endings. Stone remembersmore than it admits. Foundations laid when handsbelieved in plaguesas weather.Now it stands in our village,pretending permanence. Outside, the graveyardis freckled with snowdrops.White as surrender,white as teeth. Each bloom a small uprising.Each stem threading upwardthrough the cold grammar of bone. No one planted them for…