Home Plate
Each pattern whether hand painted or not
is invited to spend some time on my table.
With their themes of each season's celebrations
they are no longer whole sets anymore.
Some are seamless, some are chipped and scratched
some have cracks yet they blend like snowflakes.
Some hibernate for years or even longer
and like a farmer I select this season's seeds.
Like a bouqet of wildflowers I might pick
they are free from race, religion, and gender.
To me they are all equal sets to be shared
by my family, friends, and neighbors.
So please pass the plate that welcomes
all my scattered seeds at harvest time.
I will mend lost hearts and souls
and keep them free from fear and harm.
Within my circle their reflections may
safely rest upon a home plate.
This is just for you LLorenita to use as you see fit. And if you
think it belongs in file 13 that's o.k. too. You always have a kind
word, and this is how I see your poem. If you like it, it's yours.
Midnight Rider
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