Sometimes something takes shape without really understanding the seed that started it. The following poem is such an example.

Silent Supper

She touched the beveled frame of the glass cabinet, surprised by the etched design.
She saw the assorted magnets on the fridge, the sign with the saying.
She heard the soft tenor voice hum, making final meal preparations.
She smelled the fresh herbs, both in the dish and from the source.
She tasted the melody of flavors of the meal, simply made, warmly shared.

He tasted the burnt onion, the tartness of the cranberry juice.
He smelled the oregano that probably overpowered the dish.
He heard the beating of his heart nervously awaiting judgment.
He saw the discerning look on his guest’s face, aware that she could dissect anything.
He touched the back of her hand as he kept the hot ladle from falling.

She remembered the first time he made her jump – nerves.
She remembers his hand bare of any rings.
She will remember the simple pleasure of his company.

He will remember why he seldom has company over.
He remembers why he treasures her the way he does.
He remembered the first time he saw her, his heart skipping a beat.