Perceptions

 

There were folks who came for lunch,

and I worried over a menu,

over proffered drinks, over the messy house,

the table settings, even the state of 

the front door, and my choice of what to wear.

I found myself uniformly wanting;

coming up short in every way.

The hard-boiled eggs

(destined for deviling)

refused to part company with their shells..

my incomparable rolls found a distinct comparison

(inexplicably) with hockey pucks.

Dessert tasted fine, but failed miserably

in appearance.

And then, they asked to see the garden.

To tell the truth, I don't really garden.

I putter here and there, and prune a little.

I love my azaleas and camellias 

and my fountain of succulents.

I have bougainvillea and wisteria,

an orange tree, and a patch of green, green grass

that used to drive my granddaughters

to joyous somersaults and cartwheels.

I had almost forgotten the garden. 

I'd almost forgotten the pleasure of lunch 

with friends; the rediscovery

of what brings us together:

not food (or the perfection thereof)

not clean front doors and sparkling windows,

or lovely tables,

not even a garden that I love--

We are bound instead by friendship 

that is knowingly blind to minor faults, 

that, inexplicably, sees through caring eyes 

the important stuff that is worth remembrance.