ROCKING


I sit on my porch in the mountains,

Rocking;

Smelling the fresh breeze as it rustles,

All but silently,

Air unseen,

My chores dun.


You’ll find me rocking,

And watching,

And listening,

And musing,

And waiting;


Joe in the morning,

Noon, sweet tea and a mater samich,

A brew at night.

Rocking.

Pensive.

Quiet.


Watching?

Waiting?

Listening?

Rocking?

For what?


“Winter,

Winter, fool!

My Winter’s coming.

Don’t wanna miss it!”


Rock on!





Author’s Note: The poem forebodes the old feller, his life “chores dun,” rocking on the porch, not wanting to miss his death?


tom tenbrunsel

Poet Laureate of My Domain

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