Flashpowder
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.