The Windsor Rocker
by Barb Cranford
In the study, among the litter of books
and outdated papers, I toss a letter.
The angora cat stares at me, mewing
as though she wants to go out,
but when I squeak the rubber mouse,
she stalks away disdainfully.
I shuffle the papers, then drop
into the Windsor rocker and lean back.
To, fro, back, forth––I try to remember
a rhyme from A Child’s Garden of Verses
where a young girl tosses her tresses
and nibbles a crumpet. Out the window
the heirloom apple tree I transplanted
last season seems about to bloom.
Perhaps that letter will never be sent.
Later in the year I may leave this house,
find an apartment in New York
and compose a cycle of totenlieder.
The streets are crowded there, and noisy.
The people rarely watch the clouds.
~ first published in WriteOn!
