poem of the day April 6

I wonder

how

many

meals

the

old

plate

has

served

Handed

down

for

centuries

in the

farmhouse

of

generations

How

many

times

has

it

been

licked

clean

Washed

in the

love

of

families

gathered

round

the

evening

table

enjoying

yet

another

supper

Filled

by

the

bountiful

march

of

time