Of all the seats in this old house
this is the one that holds me best
it isn’t in a bedroom, it isn't on a stair
it isn’t anywhere at all -except right here
in the corner of the sitting room where
I can stare past two windowed walls
while pondering the perfect word
to set down next
or gaze into the past, remembering pooh stories
and small children listening -- or not
It isn’t soft. It isn’t hard. It doesn’t rock nor can recline
It holds me firm, keeps me alert so I can think and
dream and write -- and sometimes even pine
So. This is the chair where I always sit
there isn’t any other chair quite like it.
But it isn’t really mine at all --
this golden chair in whose lap I muse
left on a curb many years back, too good to throw away
it found a home with us. Settled in and soon became
John’s favorite spot to rest from hours in the garden
or in his basement shop. I’d settle on the couch to
break from working in the office he’d built for me
- a child’s bedroom became Mom’s book room
in our shrinking nest.
long years ensued as we danced alone together in our
old place until age took its toll and John was gone
My carpenter was gone. Gone was his voice
his whistle wafting from below, his hugs
his gardening boots at the back door
his old favorite chair sat empty
his well worn gold colored
wingback chair
Slowly I began to settle here with my keyboard on my lap
Gradually it drew me with my morning cup of coffee
a good fit, it soon became my daydream place
my writing space - with kindle close at hand
It feels like home, this chair of mine
Now this is where I always stop to
sit. There isn’t any other spot quite like
it. It isn’t freshly new, it isn’t falling down
it’s in our city home where I happily live on
with words on the wing in the air all around
to capture and sort and pin on the page to
ground my illusions and settle my rage
to sort out confusion in this odd stage
on this mountain I’m climbing -
now part way up
<><><><>
Half way up the stairs isn’t up and it isn’t down
it isn’t in the nursery, it isn’t in the town
and all sorts of funny thoughts run round my head
It isn’t really any where, it’s some place else instead...
...So this is the place I always stop….
-Christopher Robin in A. A. Milne's When We Were Very Young
JoMae
2/15/21
