Daring to emulate our own
Characteristics
These tools now resting,
Segregated,
Waiting
For their chance to perform.

Knives, with their weighty ridgedness,
Their haughty frigidness,
One side smooth and straight
The other with its
Serrated sharpness
Always ready to sever
A disproportionate share
Or ties.

Even forks with their pointy tines
Attempt reconciliation
As they nestle comfortably in conformity,
But are always at the ready
To stab blindly at life’s offerings.

And finally
The poor man’s utensil—the spoon—
With its splendid curves,
Its depth of character and soul,
Shaped with such niceties
As to fit against one another
With perfection.

Always there to nourish,
To take a measured scoop of life
Without wasting a drop.
To scrape the walls of the bowl of our years
So we might enjoy them to the fullest.
And when the day is done
Rest comfortably with such exactness
That their can be no mistake
That we are one.

Let’s be spoons.

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