PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 That dark ring in the wood you see,

I beg that you leave it right there.

It's from a cool drink she kept close

As she sat and sewed with such care.

That area on the handle,

Darker than the rest of her purse,

Where her hand rested on leather

Does not lessen it's real true worth.

Those marks on the frame of the door,

Initials and dates by their height,

Mark the growth of each little one

As they grew and their lives took flight.

That small patch in bedding quilt,

A small tear lovingly mended,

Marks the visit from a small child

When their world had been upended.

That path worn into the hardwood,

Created by walking there,

Tell the story of time's passage

And the footsteps guided with care.

What you see there isn't damage,

It's nothing in need of repair,

It's history that's signed with love -

It's their memory etched with care.

So trace that ring with a finger,

Can you feel her sewing there?

Feel the leather where her hand was,

Where she carried it with such care.

Those marks that measured their growing

Are now mirrored on their door frame.

That quilt is now held by that child,

Now grown, with love made whole again

Walk that path in the wooden floor

Seeing those who walked it before.

So while we look for perfection

Their tale is perfections core.

© Candace / Silver Dawn