Ghosts

by Maile Gaines 

Against a lake,
Under a forget-me-not sky,
Sits a table,
A decidedly small table,
Covered edge to edge and a bit more,
In a cold cloth,
Pure,
Never to be bothered cloth,
Cloth that was weighed down,
By the flowers,
In their delicate,
Blue porcelain,
Surrounded with glasses,
Clutching wine,
And plates,
Wearing crowns,
Of cloth,
Pure,
Pristine cloth,
Cloth that was weighed down,
By nothing,
But the ghosts,
Of who were meant to dine,
At the small table,
Against the lake,
Under the forget-me-not sky.