Old glass, drooping with the passage of years,
Where cobwebs hold fast in corners, collecting dust,
Passing slanted light across a worn table,
Holding the kitchen in a spell.
.
Barely Spring, and the light, now past seven,
Tells of long, nappy afternoons, old summers.
And life-gone-easy moments.
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 suddenly fell away.
.
This is light that shines through times,
Only possibly happened then, or yet to come,
Illusory memories perhaps, 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 stains of tomato, crumb and berry pies,
Rendezvous of life and light,
Reflects stories of people,
Moving,
Living.
.
Latest afternoon now,
A creaky floor plank hosting swirled grain,
Where old men gather, smoke and revel in stories,
Lies, really, but laughed around,
Told a hundred times, and still,
Smoothed along springtime’s gentle contours
Waiting to be explored anew.
Shaken Rain 