Grandfathers Chair

A well-marked path scarred the
 rich soil leading from the asphalt to the forested trail where grandfather's leather boots blazed the way, through golden aged pines.
 Evergreen needles lay over a backlog
 of dregs drawn together, forming folds along the water's edge.

The creek babble's along its wayward course, stopping briefly where herbs grow in bunches and stools of mushrooms provide a resting place
for your imagination.

 Light from above co-mingles with
 shade bringing warmth to vines
that hang from old oaks the striking beauty embellished with flowers in colors that seem to change their hue.

Wild berries grow into the gnarled
wood stumps beside the old picket
once painted white.

Deep into the thicket, my senses undertake a peaceful flight to recapture the past.
 Pausing to Indulge in memories of Grandfather milling the planks and boards that built this earthen shed
now overgrown with dagger fern and woodsia

 The old rusty iron door handle unhinged allowed my passage to the inside. Suspended beneath dusty benches
were tools the one's used to work this wood precisely hung, each by their own hook awaiting Grandfathers return.

In an old cupboard behind the door, I find my hearts longing
Grandfathers chair its natural color darkened with age wood knots and edges worn smooth like the hands that made it
The solid stoic appearance hangs
heavy on my heart
The warmth of his presence filled the space inside my heart

Back inside my Manhattan highrise I prepare a cup of chickory  and look out over  the city
The view seems different now
the worry and stress of city life is not the same as  I settle myself into the comfort of Grandfather's chair.