There nothing quite alluring as that chair
So finely crafted, sanding-wheeled and glazed,
Hand-rubbed, enhancing grain and curves with care,
And waiting just for me to be amazed.
When placed with will, upon the porch so grand,
Two-storied decks of un-named mountain inn,
Aligned, boxed in, at edgeside lake’s expanse,
Each, side by side, each calling “settle in”.
One can’t resist the urge to sit and wait,
To snap some peanuts o’er the white stone rail,
Framing scenes of fish race for the bait,
And distant, soaring hawks make known their wail.
The rocking chair mystique depends, in main,
On lore, tradition; heirloom or carved new,
Rocking back and forth, in sun or rain,
And watching nature’s world, my soul’s renewed.
The Sunday Whirl, Official Dogwood Photography Challenge