39750236_10216653982522944_822428255125504000_o.jpgHome, a rocking chair, worn by sun,
Losing its creak, on a spider’s paradise,
Of a porch,
Webbed so often a lace-curtained Irish
Marm would feel a comfortable fit,

Passing the time with bold squirrels,
No other company invited, my day
Is open to wishing.

“If onlys” crowd out
The contentment of this moment.