Steadfast anchor of the home,
silent witness to our lives, your sturdy legs
like ancient tree roots bear the weight
of unspoken words and confidences.

You are the battlefield of ideas,
where debates flare like wildfires,
smolder into uneasy truce,

the canvas for idle doodles
on the edges of forgotten homework,
crayons blurring into wood grain
memories etched in time.

Your surface knows every season—
the sticky residue of summer’s melons,
autumn leaves pressed and preserved,
frost of winter mugs and spring’s first blooms,
their stems spread in a display of vibrant hues.

We dress you in linens for strangers,
leave you bare for family; your scars,
scratches and dents, tell stories
we’ve stopped recounting: a dropped plate,
toddler’s unsteady hand, a late-night project
fueled by coffee and desperation.

You are the keeper of crumbs and spills,
gatherer of moments—more than a table
you are the sanctuary of our joys and sorrows,
a testament to the mess and beauty of living.

And when the house falls silent,
you remain steadfast and true,
patiently awaiting what comes next.