The Empty Chair

At five, my eyes should've burned like theirs
but the rocker stayed too still; too bare.
Instead, I stood in its shadow that day,
brooding its silent bows with my brow.
In grandpa's room by his old radio,
Mother on passing nearby said:
"That thing's never t'rock.
NoOne! Never'gain!"
How finite to be told--
Never. Never t'rock me back to tilt
in laughter till aged oak can tilt n'longer?
Never t'creak its late joints, then
how's a smile t'rest on its pillow!
Maybe its time came due, Our fallen horse,
barely shy of my triple crown, retired
into this heavy lever, in our way
whenever we tried to seal its swelling flow.
Mother eventually welled boxes around it,
old clothes old toys and old tools;
placed, in floating space,
shelved, inside this well,
blind, to the evolving world.
How wild, this infinite form
to just be a tree sheared and
enclosed in this silent darkness.
But years play on and creaks fade
and soon they buried the rocker behind
diplomas, awards and cradles
until, it wouldn't be reached anymore.

kc