secret twilight

The last splinters of twilight,
they fall through the window,
and with them,
the brown and orange colors,
that alone
they fill the kitchen with poetry,
unfolding its flashes,
on the marble counter.
Copper pots,
they accompany with their symphony,
of smoking bellows,
and smells that travel,
delicately,
the rest of the house,
and the wooden spoons,
they do not lose the compass.
The stacked plates,
of an unpolluted white,
they are the improvised dressing room,
where forks and knives,
they wait for the opportune moment,
to go on stage.
The routine escapes from its routine,
and the daily act,
generates a unique expectation,
night after night,
as a little ritual,
when dinner is ready,
and the magic words,
rush even the distracted,
when from the kitchen you hear:
The table is served!