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In the quiet drawer where shadows loom, There lies a simple, silver spoon. A humble tool, with a graceful curve, In silence, it holds stories, observe.
It stirs the morning coffee’s swirl, Reflects the sunlight's gentle twirl. With each dip into the pot of stew, It gathers warmth, a taste, a clue. In the depths of a midnight snack, It finds the ice cream, brings it back. A midnight friend, without a word, In its presence, comfort is stirred. It holds the soup that heals the soul, With every sip, it makes us whole. A mother's hand once held it tight, Feeding a child, day and night. It's seen the laughter and the tears, The whispered hopes, the spoken fears. A silent witness to life's tune, Oh, how we owe this silver spoon. Through years and meals, it stands the test, A little tool that serves the best. In every kitchen, bright or worn, A spoon's true worth is quietly sworn. So let us pause and give it praise, For all the roles it quietly plays. A simple spoon, with silent grace, Holds a cherished, humble place.
A poem about a spoon
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