A fire in the fireplace. Teapot on the table.
The french table’s veneer is cracked.
It is cold outside. At times, with the wind,
cold inside as well, icy wind finding its way
through cracks and drafts. No matter
how many you fill, there are more.
That is the way of old things.
We leak. We have holes where love once lived,
Parts and pieces slightly broken,
but still serviceable. Still, for some
who do not need perfection
and are willing to settle for wonderful,
About this poem
I am surrounded by people who do not see their beauty, body and soul. And yet, it is there. I see it, every day. Are they blind? (or perhaps have been blinded). Or am I seeing ghosts? I prefer to think I see better than most after the journey I have lived so far. That does not make me right, but I prefer it. I’ll stick with it. I have, after all, been trained to see. (another story. There’s always been another story.).
I am way too philosophic this morning.
The picture was taken at my parent’s house, years ago when they were both alive. It is one of my most sentimental pictures of their house, simple as it is.