Rumfork Sages

Well well, what have we here? An empty post box and apparently nothing interesting to fill it yet. Normally I would sit here and babble until something good actually came of it, but, instead, I will post my testament to spoons. It illustrates both my obsession and undying love for their little round faces and long, variously shaped tails.

Ode To My Spoons

They sit there on the table,
In a cup all together,
Squished by the manifolds
Of others just like them,
Reflecting the sky outside.
Their funny form of a
Blossoming orchid.
My spoons are many.
Some plastic, some metal,
Some half fork on the
Father's side.
The plastic ones white,
Pure as fresh snowfall.
The metal ones shining,
Full of tarnish stains.
The Spork's tortured
By their father's actions.
But they aid me always
Whether I'm digging into sand
Or digging into Jell-O.
They are in numbers,
Not only two or three.
My spoons wait for me.
They know I will come.
One after another I pluck
Them from Death,
From the death of the garbage can.
I take one a day,
Sometimes two or three
If my purse is empty.
And my spoons are happy.
They smile with their
Round edges and
Long noses,
Only one thought in
Their plastic selves.
I'm glad I'm not a fork!

Obviously the best poem ever written, and because of that I won a medal. That's right. Critics Choice Award. I have also been told that both the surface meaning and the deeper meaning are likable...however, I will tell you now that there is no deep meaning to this poem. It is solely about spoons and how wonderful they are.

All of that being said, thank you, oh wise Fork, for granting me the opportunity to infiltrate the minds and dreams of all the little children. With that I say good night!