Wooden spoons make very good friends,
Perfect for soup and stew and porridge.
They’ll help you make pudding and help you forage.
They stir and ladle and and allow you to slurp–
But a wooden spoon should never hurt, (even witches sing their worth!)
But some may think a spoon should spank,
Or they’ll treat it like a common plank,
But rue they will that lonesome day–
When all their spoons break and fade away.
And leave them lonely, soulless and gray.
For wooden spoons, they hold a charm,
A magic wrought from hand and arm,
They’re carved with care from trees so wise,
Whose roots dig deep, where secrets lie.
Each grain, a story etched in time,
A whispered spell in rhythmic rhyme.
But those who wield them with cruel intent,
Shall find their warmth and spirit spent,
For spoons are bound by unseen ties,
To earth, the sky, and ancient eyes.
They dance in pots with joyous glee,
But turn away from tyranny.
One conjurer, they say, learned this truth too late–
Her spoons all splintered, snapped by fate,
No potion brewed, no cauldron stirred,
Her magic waned, her chants unheard.
She sought in vain for wood to mend,
But found no spoon, nor faithful friend.
For spoons are keepers of the hearth.
They stir the soul, they shape our heart,
Of meals made with loving hands,
They bind good folk to their land.
And when they break, when wrongly used,
The house itself will feel abused.
So treasure well your wooden friends,
Their rounded curves, their sturdy ends.
For they will serve with steadfast grace,
In every dish, in every place.
But if you treat them ill or cruel,
Beware the fate of the foolish fool.
For when your spoons depart your hearth,
They take with them the home’s warm heart,
And leave behind a shadowed place,
Where laughter fades without a trace.
So honor those who stir the pot,
And in their care, you’ll find your lot.
