Post by debra on Jan 27, 2011 13:37:02 GMT -5
Pale pink roses
Under crazed glazes
Turn pale, pale umber
With the passing of days.
Dishes saved for precious company
Hidden away behind curved glass
In a heavy oak cabinet
Remind us of Sundays
Bygone and genteel.
Platters with fluted edges
Trimmed in worn gold
Held fried chicken and chutney
Fresh salads and trifles
All served with etched goblets
Of the sweetest iced tea.
The whole family gathered
Around the oaken dinner table
To say grace
With cloth napkins
Folded in their laps,
Heads bowed reverently.
The antiques dealer
Wants no imperfections,
No "as is".
The devaluation
Of distant frail images
Imbued in sudden white chips
Decrys the inaneness
Of china pristine.
Instead let the sullied
Porcelain remind us
Of the love our grandmothers
Shared with us as they served
Good food on fine woven
Tablecloths
With carefully polished silverware.
Fresh pink roses
In cut glass vases
Envision the hopes and dreams
Of a long time ago.
No less broken shards,
The remnants of love,
Symbolize
A way of life
We hold only in memories.
debra 1/27/11