A man behind the counter hides
behind a leafy newspaper
oblivious to our disposable world.
Wandering across waxy wood
floors the scent of old days
and dust permeates our souls.
On the back wall stand three
cuckoo clocks, dark and lean
with only the past to mark,
mechanisms broken and hands
stuck at once upon a time.
Nearby a dropleaf table
is glazed with milk glass resting
on linen edged with lavender
needlepoint stitched by a young woman
now old and faded. A corner shelf
is covered with pink glass etched
with depression and the Rose of Sharon
now empty of light that once streamed
into a dining room and set it ablaze.
These tangible fragments refuse
to be erased and for a brief moment
we share their struggles and triumphs
so we linger with the old man
clinging to the past.
We yearn to pull up a chair,
to share a cup of coffee,
to chat about the radio show
last night that brought to life
what we could not see for ourselves.
Yet in these days, the trees shed
their leaves and the days shorten;
soon winter will arrive and we will
don our boots and wander
shivering through the snow
and the new year ahead.
Follow my poetry at www.treasureoftradition.com