stepping into the room once again I smell
nostalgia engrained in this old oak table
that knows more than I,
a wisdom steeped, buried deep 
under layers of etched wooden skin
worn nobly like the face of a patriarch

supporting each generation of
eaters, talkers, thinkers, planners,
menders, doers, writers and viewers,
bearing kindness and profanity
equally and with quiet grace.

likewise these four walls guard secrets 
seeped deep into tired plaster
clung to by faded, parched paper
whose changing patterns absorbed 
lifetimes of smoke and laughter
and cries and dying of the past

whose history reflects from gilt-framed 
portraits, wall windows, room souls
who oversee the aged oblong god
placed strategically like an altar
to bathe in the soft stainglassed
light of distant memories,
that thing we call nostalgia.

waringwords 02 01 17