The Rocking Chair

Another ember crackled in the fire
as the whispering winds of past
echoed silence outside my door.


The rocking of the smooth pine
kept time like an aged pentameter
slowly winding down.
And the rhythmic swaying
slowly lulled my bones to rest.


A tickle in my eye misted my squinted greens
and the thought of death
gave a smile upon a wrinkled face.


The crackling on the floorboards
moaned under the weight.
And life dripped into the decade
old grooves that had worn its
way into the tracks that I had chosen.


The last pass of the pendulum
as the sickle makes it mark.
The chair ground to a halt
as the pianist clamped the lid on the box.