I am the blackest kettle
that you hold, boiling,
pouring for me a cup of tea
when we have become the grown old.

And in the kitchen where we sit
our hearts turned out and set aside
we will cook to fill the table.
Because the wise dine slowly,

on a terrace weathered with wooden chairs.
Summer salads, our friends arrive,
I pass the bread, you pass the wine,
Each soft and white.

Then nothing will be unspoken.
I am the linen cloth
playing with the breeze in the night.
Gently you laugh and smooth me down.

More worn, your hands
still make quick work and understand
the best move to play
in the future when we are all

part of that perfect machine,
which smiles long through dinner,
conversation, cards, and into dawn.
That never stammers, never fails.

But now I hate to be young.
I hate to be many things.
Because when I am a hammer
even you look like a nail.