WIll and Testament

No one notices the important things
when they walk into the room. No,
they see the antiques,
bought and restored over a lifetime,

the wood warm and gleaming,
each with a distinctive grain
that dances with movement,
in the candle light.

They see art, some if yours,
some of it wholly other,
illuminated pages of holy books,
or icons from times and places long lost;

some of it yours,
bright and rich with emotion,
rich with colors unleashed,
poetry in line and hue, dominating whole rooms.

They see lights. Antiques again,
resurrected from ash bins
and lovingly rewired, polished
and glowing, always glowing.

Your house is a puzzle,
a living thing where furniture rearranges,
comes, goes, changes; all of it
vulnerable to sudden disappearances

except those small things
that never change. The card on your desk,
a gift from a heartsick daughter, with it’s tiny green
pin that speaks of a permanence
known only to you and her. 

There is the box, brought half way around the world,
a gift and an acknowledgement,
filled with hearts
of the woman you loved and love again.

It is these small things that have value,
that when I am gone,
will matter to no one perhaps,
but which bring each day,
tiny glimpses of heaven.

About this poem

When I don’t have anything rising to be written, I just look around. Because at this point in life, nearly everything in my house has meaning. At least to me.

The picture above is of a father’s day card that my daughter bought me after she moved from Virginia to Vermont at the end of her junior year in high school. The green pin is a 15 year girl scout volunteer pin that she managed to get for me after she finished her Gold award. Not a lot of men get those and it’s one of my great treasures.

The box came from my sister, brought over from Thailand. She’s a great traveler, and knows I have a weakness for interesting boxes. I love all of the ones she have given me, bit this one I love best. And inside the box? Pewter hearts from the woman I love.

All these things, and others sit on my desk, and each day, bring a smile to my face, not matter where my mood may want to be. Thus is the power of love.

And no, despite what the poem says, I almost never move my furniture.

Tom