The Spoon Chronicles

The Spoon Chronicles

The potatoes wither and rot,
and my clothes are no longer folded.
You wave your hands and water will not come;
it is afraid of your skin.

The singing of birds reaches this house no longer
for they sit on the clothesline with the cat
and sing their together-woes
late into the night.

The ground has been especially hard,
since the walls are now painted blue.
Your chair at dinner left cold -
you find more comfort on the table.

One day, we will look for a spoon,
and it will not surface,
but sink to the bottom of the ocean
with its fallen companions.

I will walk a thousand times
to the place in the tree where you recline
and call you to supper,
so smile, dearie, for the sun has missed you.

Author's Note

This...makes sense to me. Sorta. Then again, you'd have to have lived my life for the past week to get this... but, eh, I still love this. It hits home. (Last stanza is my favorite...and the one about the spoon.)
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Reviews?? Pleases?
You know where they go.

Reviews

[Void Unspoken]

um... i thought it was a bit confusing but towards the end i could see where you were trying to take it. i think it's there for the most part. to this i say... "good job. keep goin'. can't wait to read more."

[Katie L]

i like it keep writing