March 16, 2017

Dust has accumulated on my grandfather’s rocking chair
The baby blue color is now a faded shade of grey
Bundled up in a big scarf mumbling a prayer
It continues to rock next to our old archway

The antique hinges creak as weight shifts
But all I hear is my papa’s soft singing
Melodies float and into the skies he drifts
And the heavens continue on ringing

Windchimes play softly on my patio
I can only remember when they played with soul
When my grandpa rocked and hummed aglow
And I sat on his lap, I felt entirely whole

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