the table...

The reticent abode has been announced.
It’s an isolated residence, not owned, but valued.
If one peered through time’s cold windowpane
It would expose cutlery dancing,
And a warm ovens heart…
All under the influence of relation and friend.   

Here, all are welcome; blessed to belong.
True family is catering love’s eternal nourishment.
Nothing shy of a culinary phenomena,
When the multitude of individuals,
With one taste, become one.

A tablecloth of furrowed linen is spread to its limit;
Simplicity is its name, an ancestral treasure.
Worn tableware full of conversations past
Are a comforting sight to all; on Simplicity they rest.

Storytellers, young and old alike
Gather in the kitchen around those creating happiness.
Here, self-expression is commemorated;
Tales of recent success, celebrated;
And humble confession of failure, reassured.

“Dinners ready,” a voice commands.
The famished sit waiting, adjusting, to fit one more in.
Innocence begs to offer up the blessing,
With eyes shut, hands folded,
An angelic right to be heard.  

First dish is presented, providing each serves the other.
Acceptance is its name, and its taste is eternal.
Some acquired it overtime, others instant satisfaction.
The creative lick their fingers, longing for this meal to last.

Second dish is served as each observes their own impression.
Forgiveness is its name, oddly all are commanded to devour.
It’s an old family recipe; the table would be lost without it.
Served up respectfully hot or cold, only to discover:
The more you share it with others, the more you find you need.

Third dish is served and simply placed in the middle;
Where all arms can reach, touch as they dabble.
This Laughter is scrumptious – delightfully contagious exhilaration!
Hidden inside are healing agents, that need no rambling reason.

Cups are filled by one willing and able,
To wash down each wholehearted tasty notion.
This is Great Grandma’s Sparkling Grateful,
Still flowing in the veins of proper perspective.
“Drink till your heart’s content.”

Fourth and final dish is served, prepared by eldest hand.
Wisdom is its name, and it takes longest to swelter.
A few are eager, but some young don’t even want a taste.
Wisdom is not meant to be savored, perhaps chewed for a period of grace.
But Wisdom necessitates being swallowed, to expose its true flavor.    

Infamously normal, some Wisdom’s left over;
Neatly wrapped, preserved for another day.
Perhaps destined to be uncovered by a drifter’s hunger pang;
As fulfillment infringes on the heart’s empty space...
Another character culinary phenomena awaits.


~2010 Vaughn Wood