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Grandma's Chair I remember that old chair, its grey wood just a minute from splinters. The seat of tapestry frayed and a bit dull, still it owned quiet strength, unlike some things that complain and give up. I sat on grandma’s lap till my feet met the floor and reveled in her stories; while tireless hands, that held time’s wear, softly caressed my cheek. She smelled crisp, like Tuesday’s ironing, gray hair almost the color of steel or maybe frost on a winter window pane. At times her blue eyes kept the look of sadness. Despite hard times and some tears she stood tall; facing her foes with never a waver with never a bend. She kept her darning needle busy, snapped green beans, soothed her babies, laughed and read her bible in that old chair. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Nancy Ann Hemsworth On Date: 2009-11-12 07:02:18
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Cheyenne, I really fell into your beautiful, tender vestas in this well constructed poem (like the old chair you write of, this piece speaks of knowledge over time, comfort for the soul of whom ever sit (reads) it and brings back so many memories to the reader, like the stories told on your grandmothers lap. Loved it, and so glad that I found it this morning on my way to work. Thanks for the journey back to the lap.