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?