Tuesday, March 23, 2021


Ode to the Adirondack chairs
that hunker down on my bookshelf, 
toy models dreaming of a past 
where a young man constructed them,
another facsimile, another lifetime,
still he choose each board carefully 
for grain warp and and texture
as if he were building a sailboat.
Place-holders for other chairs 
that once graced summer porches 
say, at the cabin by the lake 
where the afternoon wind 
ruffled and knitted the water
into a frothy shawl,
and the family reminisced, 
told stories, threading the past
to the present.
And the occasional slap 
and splash of fish 
leaping skyward 
toward the clouds, 
interrupted daydreams 
of summers long lost, 
where the family once gathered. 
But the cabin was sold 
when the grandparents died, 
and the family, 
once united by those chairs, 
scattered to the four winds,
set sail for other realms.


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