Silver and Old Rose

Image may contain: food

Sunday brought a silver-dark bowl
Lustrous with the shadowing
Of the hundreds of Sundays that
Bore it, cities and homes and hands
That held it. Strings of beads, bright
Stones, little guest towelettes –
Every room and table it graced has
Traced its story in muted light
The shine of dark silver undulled.
This Sunday I took out the plant it harboured
And gently rubbed the years away.
The scrub held my greyish rue, even
The towel clutched stains of regret
I repotted the plant and put in dried roses
Instead. This is perhaps the work of Sundays
Transmuting shadows into roses
The silver ready for the ink of future memories
Holding the old ones in red.

“Its loveliness increases”

It is a souvenir. Made from lack
Of artistic flare, meant for serving
Soups and such. An afternoon of festivity.
And to make up for my lack of creativity
I wrote on the inside when I was done –
“Ask for more!” Everyone thought that was fun.
Sometime later it broke, as these things do.
Glued together, it held the minutiae of our lives
Not much good any more for serving soup,
It managed to serve as a keeper of lost erasers,
Pencil stubs, cracked sharpeners, rubber bands
Retied into serviceable loops, bits of broken
Things. Today I rescued perfectly dried roses
Stiffened on their stems. I repotted them in token
Of all the things waiting to be renewed that hands
Cannot remake. A keepsake that forecloses
The possibility of newness, a thing of fleeting
Beauty. Kept for the sake of keeping.