by Michael O'Connor
Dark oaken rails and runners
Faded out with wear,
On the bottom of his old
Wooden rocking chair.
Nestled in the corner
basking by the light,
Casting mid winter shadows
On a cold November night.
It’s finish chipped and tattered
where spindles fail to glow,
But it’s in a fade of outer
Beauty that wisdom often shows.
Every scratch and scar displayed
On its aged brittle frame,
While then a painful cut in time
Becomes a memory of the same.
Despite the seven years or more
The rocker morning rife,
I feel that I may know him now
Ever more so than in life.
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This poem, besides being wonderful to read, can help a Yank begin to understand what the South means to people and writers who live and work there. From afar, physically and emotionally, I can feel the South after reading this poem. Thanks.
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