Vincent Van Gogh
    oil on panel, 1885

No crystal glassware here, no fragile vase,
No linen, just a wooden table, bare
Of ostentation. Common earthenware
Instead, brick-red and rounded at its base
Stands by a crumpled cotton cloth. No lace,
No crocheted doily mats, but just one pair
Of wooden clogs carved from a tree. No chair
Is seen in this still life, yet there’s a place
For wine to sit and gladden weary hearts
After the day is through and land is tilled.
Outside this frame a fire blazes bright.
A kettle boils. A wife waits to impart
Her simple gift of bread from flour milled
From grain her husband brings home every night.