Plethora

Some clippings of grass
upon kitchen table.
Dots of sun shared
by crystal vase.
The wilted flower
petals, fallen.
Specks of salt, pepper
cinnamon toast from
breakfast. I place
my flat palms down
hard. Work them into
the table cloth.
Collecting conversations
long retired. No
snow to wet the
ground, no silent
cat steps through
the lawn. These
minute offerings
replace them. Hand
squishing into crumbs
and old smiles and
parents. The plethora
of scenes imprinted
in this room.