every old thing

she walks softly

over the rug the grandmothers

wove knot by silken knot

as the scent of apricots filled the air

and the dates ripened on the palms

toward the center there’s a dark stain

from tea spilled long ago,

a brew fragrant with herbs, spices and memories

though no one now living could recall

the shock or jostle and the splash

the once-bright hues of the grand design are faded with time and wear into

a muted beauty; careful mending

speaks of love well-worth the tending

every old thing tells a story

she whispers, waltzing from the room

now she is part of its story, too