A still life

A Still Life

 

The road is wet from last night’s rain

On the back the translucent green leaves of the climbing rose

Are a checkpoint where half the morning sunbeam passes

And the rest stays on the tables of garage sale

Rugged clothes hung on the fence by the climbing rose

Swollen books with a decoration of stain

A small table mirror with a dent on the frame

Cups in furious green, a black umbrella, too black umbrella

A picnic basket with mould on the side

A stool with a crack on the seat, shoes worn out with the roads

not taken, and boxful of toys with missing parts

Some come closer and some merely take a stroll

In the jungle of the usable (but not keepable)

Moment by moment the shifting light draws a different perspective

All in arrest breathing in morning air keep their position

As still as a still life

Demanding their own perspective