It is a soft weave of lace
aged with time and love.

Grace of many polished table
as stories unfold around.

It was under
the candle burn of sorrow
as Mom walked out the door.

When words said in haste
left a bitter taste
as Dad in pain
put the blame
within lap of child
who a bit too wild
was the cause of all
his hurt.

It was there, passed down
upon floor of cottage
amid ruin of dream
as love walked out.

It was there to dry a tear
when infant so small
birthed with love
conceived out of time
was given as gift to another.

It was left behind
as escape from darkness
came for the delicate
flower
and remained
until return.

It sits now upon loneliness
worn more so, tattered.

A soft weave of lace
that brings me comfort
with its fray of edge.

WhiteRose