Written by Devon Brock

Still Life

Some thought the world began as a wicker raft,
woven by the hands of a god and cast adrift.
And some think the law is the path of an orphan
slave, abandoned to the Nile in a basket.
And that basket there, on the end table,
oxblood and tight weaved for a century,
the carrier of keys and some coin,
is born of hands that cradle the end of my day,
and a dawn uncertain.

Image: HUA LING on Unsplash

5 thoughts on “Still Life”

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