an imagist poem
The worn wooden rocking chair,
Reluctantly creaks in the crisp breeze.
Wood exposed, paint chipping with days,
And nights of good company and conversation.
It welcomes the new season with a groan.
A warm palette of leaves carpet the ground,
Like a thick blanket beneath the shedding Oak.
Crackling leaves dance across the yard,
As children in coats prance through their piles.
The nearly naked branches sway mournfully,
Anticipating the promise of spring.
