The wrinkles

The old wood table and the earthen pot,
Trembling fingers who have seen it all,
Find a world of their own,
Every morning, winters or fall,
Newspapers change but stories,
The world is a pattern in making,

The tea, the garden, the wall of glories

When love is memories,
And promises letters,
The wrinkles find their way,
To soak all that mattered.