Repast

In the early light of Fall dusk,

From across the yard and through

The pines, I hear voices of children

And the sounds of a table being set,

The clinks and clicks of silverware,

Knife, fork, spoon on a wooden table,

Not the bells of crystal but the heavy

Thuds of the milk and water glasses,

The empty waiting spaces for plates

That must be warming on the stove,

Laughter and something like love.

I am home in a place not my own.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 568 times
Written on 2011-11-09 at 16:42

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I'm with Josephus. There is great sadness to this poem.
2011-11-13


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
You paint such wonderful yet quietly melancholy scenes my friend. I remember these as well, being at that table many years ago and now like you standing outside the room... with gentle warming memories.

Joe
2011-11-10


Katherinee x
the comforting feeling completely warmed me while reading this. very simple and beautiful =)
2011-11-10


shells
This is just full of comfort and of the familiar, seems to equal happiness.
2011-11-09


Rob Graber
We are of a kind, alright. Well done!
2011-11-09