Drops glaze memories
The lid cannot confine.
At night, in the cupboard,
They unlatch the door.
Coffee and tea they pour
Into China demitasses.
They kindle ashes
Into bonfires from the past.
And its warmth
they sip.
Side by side
they sit.
Silence speaks
Of the shine they miss:
Girls around the table
butter
bread
coffee and milk
that chink in the saucer
laughter
dreams.
Ghosts, they thread queries:
“Are they happy?”
“Have they made it
After our departure?”
“Has the Witch’ s chagrin
Smothered their dreams?”
A robin sings.
They rush back into the coffee pot.
Cupboard doors shut them in.
As I enter the room,
Bach fiddles
Unseen strings…
And spout is a flute.
It splashes into my ears
Fuses of a fugue
Out of Grandma’s coffee pot.
Photo by Mausilinda
I love it! Few words can trigger a multitude of images! I could see and hear memories.
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Thank you, Iná. This is the authentic one. It brings me so many memories and yearnings. Thank you for your comment, Iná. A big hug
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