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The Table, the Shawl, and Her Grace
A table of oak, steadfast and worn,
Its edges kissed by years well-born.
It waits in silence, its surface bare,
Until she comes, beyond compare.
A shawl of velvet, crimson and gold,
Spills like a river, soft and bold.
Its folds embrace the wooden plane,
A quiet stage for beauty’s reign.
And there she rests, her form divine,
A radiant muse, a fleeting sign.
Her hands, like whispers, trace the thread,
While thoughts unspoken crown her head.
The shawl drapes lightly, a lover’s care,
Framing the glow of her flowing hair.
Its hues reflect her inner light,
A subtle flame in the soft twilight.
The table stands, a sentinel still,
Honoring her with quiet will.
For in this space, her beauty stays,
A timeless hymn, a poet’s praise.
No words disturb this sacred view,
The world fades out; she is the truth.
The table, the shawl, and her soul’s art,
A trinity bound to stir the heart.
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Lenttile ｒ
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