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