The Polished Rocking Chair

Sitting in the polished rocking chair
     Pellet stove blows warm and drys
     out my eyes
     Skin like bronze catching light

Three sunbeams are trapped in the ornate
     glass and spill into the room
     Heel taps silently to some
     rhythm it remembers
My half empty mug holds neglected tea
     sits among waxy white pillars
     atop the brown coffee table, it
     resembles my boots in color and

I remember the cold world outside
     the ancient lacy curtains hide
     me for now. I cannot forget it
     but I will ignore it for a while.