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The Rocking Chair

The rocking chair's
wide emptiness,
inside the wide,
expectant arms,
is like a grief, or
like an unrequited love.

The dark wood,
like a starving skin,
still shines with
any small attention
or caress.
Each wooden joint
locks in the memory
of a rhythm or
lulling melody.

While underneath,
the rockers wanly smile;
forgotten twins.
Small sisters to great ships
and flying buttresses,
they ache with all
this holding still,
this keeping long
uncreaking silences.

The rocking chair's
wide emptiness
unfilled,
is like a grief, or
like an unrequited love.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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