Antique Rocker-August 2, 2007

Its wooden bones are creaking,
popping like a fire,
and crackling like a path of sticks.
The antique rocker,
upon my southern porch,
has been swaying back and forth
since the day grandpa died.
He used to prop himself
upon this dust dressed rocker,
and just lean back,
used to swallow the sweet air,
and grin until the sky turned night black.
The time-worn wood,
would squeal with pain
as grandpa would lift himself out of the chair,
and say with no shame,
"that antique rocker
is getting as old as me.
It will live much longer though,
this you will see.
Keep it when it does.
Oh, yes keep it for me...
so I have a place to rest,
when I visit thee."
Grandpa would soon die,
and what he said
had not been a lie...
that old rocker is still swaying
and I stand right by.
I sometimes will catch myself
speaking to the wind,
and asking the antique questions,
but its secrets are kept within.
"Grandpa,"
I would say...
"Is that you
that does sway,
upon this antique rocker,
everday?"
No answer
no reply,
but the truth
I can not deny...
the antique rocker's
wooden bones are creaking,
popping like a fire,
and crackling like a path of sticks.
The antique rocker,
upon my southern porch,
has been swaying back and forth.
Within it I shall never sit
for Grandpa is swaying within it.
© Loretta Hanscome