Two Tables

by owlsofthewild

We slide into our places around the table
swift and silent as brush strokes
and the paint sighs as we
conform to the image.

The year is done. We lay out its contents
on the table – a keepsake cornucopia:
drink deep the honeycomb
of the name we share.

Oh, holy night! What joy, what rich honey
swells from the tongues of unbound hands
and unfurled lips. Wreathed in holly
and spruce, the orange and red hues
of the Blessed Virgin and Son stoop down
to share our bread and wine.

How odd that Grandfather’s stories
of the War to End All Wars
seem so bright, tonight.
How right though, too.