An afternoon sun casts through the window:
Old cobwebs held fast in corners, gathering dust,
Slanted light cast across the worn table,
Holding the kitchen in a spell.
.
Barely Spring, and the light, now past seven,
Tells of long, nappy afternoons and old summers.
This is a life-gone-easy moment.
A steady glow reviving old bowls to colorful pasts,
Meals cook perfect here, timed to the clink of fork on plate,
Savory previews where shadows fell away.
.
This is light that shines through time,
Stretches far across it, into places, thoughts or moods,
That maybe never happened, or have yet to come,
Illusory memories then, or vague hopes.
Regardless of how these things wrap into one,
This is the luminous clutch of that familiar patience,
We all longed for through chilled and terse days.
.
This is when the old apron, hanging from a hook,
Illumed now in constellations of dust,
Stained in pie, tomato and crumb, a rendezvous of life and light,
Reflecting stories of people,
Moving,
Living.
.
Latest afternoon, a creaky plank hosting swirled grain,
Where old men gather , smoke and revel in stories,
Lies, really, but laughed around,
Told a hundred times, and still,
Contours of a day waiting to be explored anew.
Shaken Rain 