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