Too many pots
Too many pans
Too many ladles
Not enough hands

Too many plates
Too many bowls
Too many glasses
Not enough souls

Too many spoons
Too many knives
Too many forks
Not enough life

Too many pillows
Still just one sheet
Too many towels
What shall I eat?

Not enough voices
Not enough sound
Where are the fingerprints
Left all around?

I’m cleaning for one
I’m shopping for half
I want nothing more
Than to have a good laugh

While hearts remain home
There are just no more faces
They’ve left for their futures
In far-away places

But phone calls and Facetime
And road trips will save me
My roots became mobile
The world is my tree.