The Old Man on the Rocking Chair

The cool spring air dances over the fresh green grass,
Rustling the few gray hairs I have left upon my scalp.
The rocker below me sways backwards and forewords in an aged tempo,
Awakening the old oak panels of our front porch, which sings in agony with a creshendoing
CREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAK!

On the lawn, my grandson dances to the new music of spring,
Marveling at all that had been dead throughout the frigid winter.
He laughs broadly, revealing his piano key teeth,
Singing that innocent song of childhood.

Suddenly, the scene begins to shift;
My tired sight begins to blur, everything joining together into one, undistinguishable picture.
I blink, and the picture clears...
A sea of freshly churned soil lies before me.

Is this Heaven? Has God decided it was my time?
Well, at least that damn ache in my back is gone.
Then I hear a voice, strong and hoarse... it's my father's voice.
"John!" it calls, "suppers on!"

A young boy runs from the barn,
A mess of golden hey clinging to his auburn hair.
He skips at the prospect of my mother's famous biscuits,
Which my old nose still smells on lonely nights.

The boy is laughing broadly, revealing his piano key teeth,
Singing that innocent song of childhood...

Small hands shake me back from the dead,
My grandson stands before me, mouth raised in a smile.
My aged lips twists into a small grin as I embrace him.
Below me, the rocker has ceased, trapped in a moment I wish will never end.

Ah, how childhood innocence never changes...