One last longing, in this mass she calls herself,
there is a something outside she cannot have
something hidden, not remembered.
This is not a doing-chair sitting on the porch,
it is for sitting in the chair on the porch,
The sun has moved further behind the house
now surrounding everything in soft broken light,
aching shadows of late afternoon.
Her rocking chair on the porch is old,
has a weathered life displayed quietly
with a few special spots worn, a few rips in the seat
its arms are solid but wobbly, still able.
Once there was wicker, now only torn open space.
She, sitting in the chair for longer than memory,
decides which needs to be repaired or ripped out
sitting in this chair, she pulls herself back, to the back
of the deep seat, crossing her short legs at swollen ankles
sitting in the chair on the porch
balancing the weight of the family’s roots and branches.
Others have rocked in her chair not sensing it was hers
they did not find the solace she has woven into its curves,
they were not able to fill the proportions she found
in the chair sitting on the porch. It is still the place
where she meets the end of day to share a story,
see a memory from another light as the sun moves away
leaving her sitting in the chair on the porch one more time.
Sharon Mooney, “A Grandmother's Chair”, From The Wide Open Sky, a poetry anthology", ed., Kevin Watt, August, 2020, California