The Silver

The silver sits on the table,
off to the side, visible,
on display, it’s graceful lines
catching the light

on it’s slightly tarnished metal,
precious, no doubt,
but largely forgotten,
unseen,

the passion it once stirred
now part of the woodwork,
only used on special occasions,
it’s value more a memory

than part of life.

About this poem.

None of us like to be taken for granted. But too often, the best parts of us are. And we linger, and tarnish, noticed more for the tarnish, than the precious glow underneath.

The picture was taken at my parent’s house, at Christmas.

Tom