Sacred Objects

in the descending twilight

magic sometimes paints

visions of tomorrow

in the smoke and ash

of the hearth in

the dancing shadows

on these mute walls

the grand room

the objects

handed down

from ancestors

who whisper still

about what befalls

for a moment

in the embers

before the sun rises

i see faces of generations

yet unborn who speak

with both gratitude and regret

for what passes to them from me