The Chair
Willow chair, made right here
by her dad, forty years ago.
Cobbled up from twigs, he’d
say, disclaiming artistry.
And yet, the fleurs-de-lis
carved along the headrest,
the palmate ribs.
A chair made of sticks, now parched,
caving slowly to the south like an old barn,
nail heads sprouting along the legs.
Forest creature, returned this day
to the cove of its origin, to the very
creek where its young roots once reached.
Arranged without ceremony
beneath a withered sister tree.
A gracious lopsided seat in the wilderness,
it seemed, as we paused along the ridge
to look back, then walked on ahead.