Trinity

These three;

chair,

bench,

table,

the trinity,

Have held my family;

My boys and me.

 

From babes slopping and slurping mush,

massaging orange sweet potato into the whorls and whirls of the

naked, unprotected wood.

To toddlers climbing on the curved wooden chairs to finger rainbows in sticky paint.

School books taking flight on homework nights,

anger indenting the soft wood with words of fury.

 

All the while the tall, patient bench,

Straight backed, tucked in,

waited for visitors

so she could clear her seat of cat and clutter,

Sneeze away crumbs and dust

to seat cousins,

growing fast up her spine,

shoulder to shoulder with their kin,

fingering food surreptitiously into

hungry un-mannered mouths

while parental mouths

are full of words.

 

Now,

it is just I who sit in this quiet morning light,

legs curled between the smooth seats,

worn elbows resting on the scrubbed, white pine

which has circled cups and conversations,

and  move my pencil across paper to find poetry.