The Old Rocking Chair (In memory of Homer Treadway)

The Old Rocking Chair

The old rocking chair is still on the porch...the wind chimes whispering softly,
The drawing bucket on a tattered rope, buttercups on the rocks that are mossy.
Whippoorwills calling form a distant rise, cattle grazing on the hill.
Nevermore will that familiar calloused hand, draw the water.....or tend the mill.

Memories past...but not forgotten, one need only come by and sit a spell
The screen door stands just a bit ajar, welcome to any who would enter there,
In essence, this reflects the toils, of many suns though not in vain,
The walls rang with laughter, a labor of love, though....many laced with pain.

The sword above the mantle, the cane neigh the door,
Attest to the hardships that calloused hands bore.
The worn iron by the warmer, the basin by the stoop,
All familiar with the calloused hands, that secured the draw bucket loop.

The rope, made of the finest hemp, now just weathered old twine.
Memories past but not forgotten, one need only step back in time.
Stop in for a visit....step up on the porch....
The old rocker longs to share it's memories, of an era...long before.

Just close your eyes and allow your soul, to drink of the memories past.
The sun setting, beyond the distant hill, the waters trickling softly......
Ore the paddles by the mill...
Nightsounds from the fields and trees, babblings of the brooke.......
Frogs and crickets, whispering pines....
Whippoorwills.......... ore the hills.

Timmy Dean Treadway 6/10/04 (In Honor of my Grandpa, Homer Treadway)