I look around the room and find
Things radiant with vague significance:
Three tulips in a cracked, Venetian vase,
Pale cups of light on stiff, green stems.
Two gold-edged mirrors hanging opposite
Each other, tricking interlopers
To fall endlessly, mise en abyme.
Two windows, luminous and liminal,
Connecting interior and outer worlds,
In this case room and garden.
Four wooden chairs in all their usefulness,
With all their history, associations,
Crafted and beautiful aesthetic.
A wooden table set for dinner,
Empty white plates as cool as milkstone,
White candles, gleaming cutlery,
Awaiting company, though all is still
And quiet as an abandoned ship
And sudden voices unimaginable.
My funny, sort-of conversation
Is silent and appropriate:
A quick nod to the captive flowers,
A glance into the otherworldly
Garden, a quick prayer
That I may also love the unloved things.
I praise the room’s unique particulars,
A room where things are waiting to arrive
Yet shining with the things already placed,
Potent with meaning, yet all the many meanings
Seem barely tangible, just out of reach.