The Fountain Pen

I must have dozed for a while

In my favorite reading chair.

The book on my lap

Open on a page read

But not remembered.

The sunlight, its day’s work done,

Does a parting farewell dance

Between photographs and objects,

While listening to their stories

Of paths taken or ignored

Things said and regretted,

Of tales of this and that,

And of how and why and when

We chose things, big and small.

Like our children’s names

Or the color of a jacket.

Outside,  a Robin,

Blessed with lightness,

Unaware of its importance,

Accomplishes its purpose

With simplicity and candor.

Unconcerned that his song

Is being muffled a bit

By the rumble of faraway cars.

On my desk, a fountain pen

Inherited from a dear friend,

Reminds me of a time

When the future seemed boundless

Daring  me to make sense of it.

As if I could!

The walls slowly change color

From orange to pink,

And finally to a dull purple.

They kindly encourage me

To prepare for another day.

Smiling, I leave the room

Gently closing the door behind me.