The tables talk here ,
Without the noise of space,
White sets the mood ,
Beginning with the background of grey ,
Eames makes the water gurgle ,
The silence reflects the name.
There isn’t much happening,
yet its there ,
It makes you think,
It makes you stare.
Losing focus ,
Not of spindly legs or shiny cutlery ,
It darts along the room,
Masking the petty ;
Never would have been an experiment ,
Sans the conviction or the solemnity .
These edges that meet the lines,
With textures that meld ,
Together by default intentions.
A vindication of light and seasons.
Translating to a pedestal for conversation ,
The lines meet their edge for an designed reason.
In this private cocoon ,
One wanders ,
Why they feel so content here .