I love this chair.
It is a lovely chair.
In love I am
with my chair.
I love its molded
seat, its finely
turned cabriole legs,
its scrolled backrest.
I love my chair.
It sustains me
in my sorrow,
buoys up my joy.
It tells me when
my body needs to
move; its firmness
keeps me active.
My chair stays present;
it knows not
to hide when news
flares or babies cry.
I love this chair.
A constant in my life.
Its blue hues
soothe me,
inviting my memory
to rise and honor
others with great
chairs in history—
Lincoln, Roosevelt,
Whistler’s mother—
now there is a great chair—
it rocks.
My chair though,
sits still for me,
and I, not famous
nor profound, am grateful.
Word Play 