The Tinkle of Lives

In every kitchen, at the quiet table,
a faint sound marks the passing years:
the clinking of fork and spoon,
unaware deaf to joys and worries.

Not the shine or the exact form,
but the brief echo that every meal brings:
a memory that is never told,
of careful hands, of a dense weave.

It heard laughter, tears suppressed,
the daring plans, the doubts most light,
the goodbyes, the returns never forgotten,
in the air moved by small thoughts.