Oak

A young couple shares their first meal in marriage and the crumbs of bread mingle with the blood red wine on a lacy white fabric, instilled with the memories of Saints long past.
A candle, unattended, burns long through its wax, forever leaving its own mark.
This once wild oak,
tamed by carpenters hands,
inscribed with an invitation to come and stay, taste and see, has been home not only to some of the greatest mysteries of grace,
but to Legos arranged with the imaginative energy of tiny hands,
tears rolled from weathered cheeks as a bell rings and the name on their heart echos through the rafters,
and small smears of oil transferred from glass,
to hand,
to head
and back again.
The ornamentation of tangled vines and ample ripe grapes is carefully tended,
watched whenever moved from back to front and down short steps.
Yet even when the plates are arranged,
the cloth ironed and cleaned,
the dressings all set,
it is the marks of feasts,
loves,
hands
and wine that stay,
calling through time sounding an invitation stronger than the words inscribed therein:
come and stay, taste and see.