Spoons stacked neatly in the wooden bin.
Next, the knives. Everything in order.
A pair of flowers in a vase.
A bit of brightness and color.
Not enough that a visitor would notice,
but enough for the day, weapons enough
to combat your own frailty, in your own mind,
in this moment.
About this poem
I am sure I am not the only one who does this. When things feel out of control, I do something simple, that I can control, to put my mind in a better place. I have lots of practice.