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