The Rocking Chair


In a corner of my mother's house,
Was a tiny rocking chair ...
High-backed and neat,
A little, low seat,
And long rockers, now quite rare.

It was made of sturdy walnut,
And was Shaker in design;
The hand-rubbed stain
On its wood remains,
And, with polish, fairly shines.

Rocking Chair

There is some skimpy padding,
On its seat and on its back;
The velveteen
Has lost its sheen,
But the fabric's still in tact.

Its age is plus one hundred years,
A genuine antique;
One of a kind,
A collector's find,
With its own distinctive creak.

Rocking Chair

When I was just a kid,
I swear I heard it in the night;
"Creak, creak," it went,
My ears were bent,
At first it caused me fright.

But soon I grew to listen,
And found comfort in that squeak;
I'd close my eyes
And fantasize,
I'd see Grandma in that seat.

Rocking Chair

I'd see her as a younger soul,
With a baby on her lap;
She'd hum a song,
The baby'd yawn,
She'd rock him fore and aft.

I'd snuggle in my bedclothes,
And hear that rocking sound;
I'd go to sleep
To its steady beat,
Oh, such contentment had I found.

Rocking Chair

Well, all that was many years ago,
And the rocking chair's now mine;
It's in my home,
Just like a throne,
In a position most sublime.

Sometimes I sit and rock myself,
The chair has a magic feel;
I sense its love
As if I'm hugged,
It has "I'm home" appeal.

Now I am old, but I still feel good,
When, at night, the rocker squeaks;
"Creak, creak," it goes,
With its to's and fro's,
And the tiny rocker speaks.

~ Virginia Ellis ~
Copyright 2000

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