Mother's China
My mother's dishes are as delicate as she,
Tiny pink rose bouquets and silver rims.
Once I used them with her lace tablecloth,
For Thanksgiving and Christmas back then.
Then came the day of casual living,
She had given me a set of gold flatware,
So I set a pretty table of everyday white,
And gold and food were there.
It was passable pretty, no need to be babied,
If something broke it didn't matter;
They could go in the dishwasher for tomorrow,
Throw the paper cloth away, join the holiday chatter.
The rosebud dishes I fear to use
For each day makes them more antique,
So I've willed them to someone young and special,
Will she use them, what do you think?
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