General

The spoon was a blessed aged silver, its artistic touches rendered all the warmer by the deepening black.

General

In her hand was a metal spoon, the sort you'd find in any London town corner cafe, casually being warmed by those most delicate of fingers.

General

A spoon once destined for the high ballroom tables of Europe was quite at home in our humble cottage; at our quiet breakfast, made all the more beautiful by playful jazz, it belonged more in her hand that in any since its making.

General

A cold spoon upon a cold table plainly be asks for both warm both and the cradling of gentle fingers.

General

The spoon cradled the soup her mama made, that sweet earthly broth born in the green and giving fields.

General

The spoon was a bold silver in his soft dark palm, as sweet as the full moon in any warm summer night.

General

The spoon had opening foliage at the top, delicately fashioned, then after a slender stalk it opened out to a spoon that brought primrose petals to my wandering daydreams.