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These glasses, these plates, they talk among themselves.
Paul Cezanne

Now in this stillness, the lines and angles are content.
It is a simple pleasure.
The wood floor, checkered blanket, woven rag rug,
and the formerly chatter-boxed windows
are silenced
as drawn shades stand guard
against accidental and dangerous musical breezes.

The glasses and plates, so young and lively,
have much to talk about now.
These shapely ones are so different
from their house-mates, they discovered too late.

Windows thrown open, the plates, glasses, and floor,
in a frenzied night of passion and dance,
tried once to mingle.
But, oh, what disastrous results!

Floor boards, too stubborn or unable to bend.
Plates, so dimensional, scoffed at
being merely a line, and besides,
they too are stubborn
they would not be flexible,
not the way the floor needed them to be that night.

Inevitable shards, gashed wood,
and jagged fragments spoke volumes.
They should have known better.

So the plates and glasses no longer dance–
they can only talk among themselves,
while the windows remain shut, ashamed
for that one night’s passion,
that one night’s strong winds,
and that deafening noise.

 


Gail Moran Wawrzyniak enjoys writing poetry, plays, short stories, and essays. Her writing has been published in literary publications such as ArtWord Quarterly, Colors Magazine, The Hamline Journal, and the anthology, Stories Migrating Home. She has a Master of Arts in Liberal Studies and lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with her husband and their Shetland Sheepdog.  Visit her website at www.gailwawrzyniak.com.

© 2010, Gail Wawrzyniak

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