My Old Chair
There’s a room to the north
Where the snow comes in
The cracks invite the wind openly
As the windows relent to the winter
The panes long ago traveling into warmth
Allowing the room and elements to become as one
With paint chips curling and dropping together
A dusting knocks at the door, invited
Surrounding my ol’ comfortable chair
As a relic forgotten, in a move long lost
And into the grip of empty, cold abandonment.
Are the depths of this early chill
Already visible in the washed out image of winter?
As a harrow, through the fields I wander
Back to the house and bare room entered
From a recollection acquired in childhood
I step over the sill, cautiously walking in
And the moment is captured in a frozen image
Printed for all to see as a sacrifice from the shutter
As my warmth overcomes and recollects
This mid-October memory; back home
Photo source: here
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