O fork, thou art a quiet thing,
A subtle shape, a gentle swing.
In silvered gleam or matte design,
You bear the weight of thoughts divine.
The perfect fork, so clean, so pure,
With tines that speak of balance sure.
A curve so slight, a gleam so bright,
You fit my hand, just soft, just right.
Each prong aligned, so neat, so true,
A simple grace in all you do.
You glide through meals, a measured pace,
And bring the world to peaceful space.
Your handle, neither too thin nor thick,
A perfect weight, a touch, a click.
I hold you close, with quiet trust,
For you’re the tool I know I must.
But oh, the ugly fork, the one I dread,
With crooked tines and edges spread.
Your form, confused, does not belong,
A dissonance, a subtle wrong.
Too heavy here, too light there,
You never feel quite right, or fair.
Your handle's cold, your prongs askew,
You twist my thoughts, I can't break through.
The meal becomes a clumsy thing,
Each bite a struggle, something offbeat.
Your design betrays, your balance lost,
You pull at threads, at every cost.
Yet, still, I know you must have worth,
You serve a purpose in this earth.
Though imperfect, you have your place,
In moments where I need the chase.
But oh, the perfect fork, you stay,
Your simple lines, your subtle sway,
Bring calm to chaos, joy to mind.
In you, a harmony I find.
O fork, both gentle and austere,
Your beauty quiet, pure, and clear.
You make each meal a small delight,
A pause, a balance, calm and bright.
In perfect form or flawed design,
You are my tool, my constant line.
For though you differ, one or two,
In each of you, my world feels true.
