It vanishes from the wall
in familiarity at times,
with the tiny dabs of white
on the edge of the grapes
that looks wet,
as if the paint will never dry,
each delicately picked from the midnight sky
to sit upon the velvet leaf
with the weave of an exquisite lush carpet
that’s worthy of floating in bejeweled dreams
and the twiggy grapevine
with it’s curious twist and curl
reaches over the red and golden pear
to dangle from the muted pewter bowl
feeling like it missed the ride,
and the few walnuts scattered on the wooden table
one cracked in half,
an exposed open wound, nibbled and pondered on,
and off center, the small wheel of cheese
formed in it’s savory rind
fully aged as November,
forever in my heart