The Table of Imaginary Dreams
Until we knocked walls down, this was the dining room. Now it’s a bright corner with a heavy oak table, chairs that won’t slide easily under the table when you’re sitting on them. And there, an old milk bottle with a few flowers bending from the stem. Even in winter there’s usually something blooming, or minimally still green and not dead. This table is for food – not for newspapers or laptops or tablets or pens and pencils and scraps of paper. It’s dinnertime. The table is set. Same plates we’ve had for many decades. Hand-me-downs, although we call them heirlooms. Blue and white, hand-painted. They survived bombardment, and the Germans rolling into Denmark in the 40s. Meals are tradition. Food is theatre. It’s my second vocation. A vocation I’ve loved. As the last hint of sunset fills the air, we sit down to Chalkstream trout, roasted tomatoes with capers and garlic, steamed green beans, and crushed new potatoes with parsley.
In an orchard by the stream
Watercress grows wild
Written for Tuesday Poetics: Haibun for dVerse Poets and The Cafe of Imaginary Dreams Photo by Sarah Dorweiler on Unsplash ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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