We fill our lives with
We fill our time with
Our plates often hold too much.
Our homes could spare more space.
Abundance is the child of the age,
Prosperity is her sister.
Wealth, the distant cousin
Is so often discussed but remains
Elusive at a holiday meal.
More is less since her surgery,
And less has put on considerable weight.
It is a very rare occasion that they all get together
Yet whomever does not show is discussed.
After the candles have dripped
Before the last flicker of flame,
We dream of the everlasting:
The plate that is never empty,
The closet full of clothes,
Overstuffed pillows and a cozy quilt,
The comforts of having a home.
We cherish the laughter,
We fondle our joy
Grasping for more
As friends leave out the door.
And there in the twilight
The daylight departing,
Alone again with only the dust,
Is the enchantment of lace.
The space between,
The irony of emptiness.