tea-time

A splendor lit through panes of purest glass
Gleams gold upon the worn, old kitchen floor.
Rich beams turn faded rags to cloth of brass
And stream, as though a fog, through open door.
A comfort brought by yeasty, fresh-baked bread
Sleeps quietly in each square inch of space.
The kettle steams and sings with heart and head
Promising tea, for care it will efface.
This is the amber shadow time that veils
The longing to express mere discontent.
This is the misted silvery time that sails
Through frantic minds rendering impotent.
Come, leave your load and rest you for a while–
Nought else but hope remains in heart’s exile.