by Dutch Shaw

One wooden chair on an unkempt porch

Bent and frayed with the passing of years

So much like its owner

Only slightly more graceful

 His face is an open diary

Thousands of stories interwoven among

The scars and lines of being

Tales too deep to understand


With ever growing reluctance

Through ever dimming windows

He gazes upon his surroundings

And for a moment forgets exactly where he is


Sadly it returns to him

And another crease is added to the page

Such sad and poignant lines

From such an unwilling scribe


An unexpected wind manages to raise a heavy brow

As eyes focus upon an aged friend

Who after much cajoling (and sweet, sweet whispers)

Relinquished her amber colored brows.


He watched those determined spirits float upon the breeze

and with every eager petal

That found its way to open arms

Another shutter blinked and captured all


Additions to the scrapbook

Nestled between the memories of black cherry soda

And the sweetheart he had to say goodbye to

Those ten winters long ago


His face caught an uninvited fear

And tossed it to and fro

Before letting it settle upon a dusty knee

Where it sank ever so gently into its patchwork


He raised an unfamiliar hand before his eyes

Wondering just hot it had come to be this way

As he wiped the heaviness from a weathered cheek

Just as she did so lovingly

All the while the chair held its place

Looking upon his master fondly

Waiting to tenderly cradle him

With all the care in the world.


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