The wind is winding through the legs of this
Enameled rocking
English white warped old
Large lovely
chair I’m creaking on the wood
Rain-waved
front wrap-around stained porch. My bliss
Belongs among
the woven birds, the cold
Beloved branches,
all I always could.
Shall I
describe the beauty of my home,
The beauty
of my wife, the purpose playing
Across the
ground in dances now delaying
The writing
of a trickster’s epic tome?
At my shape,
age, and size, would I dare roam
And find my
origin in all my straying
Off the path
bringing opinions delaying
The coloring
material in chrome?
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