Twilight has fallen, and the rain is softly and steadily falling.
Gently we rock back and forth, our arms around each other,
alone together in a comfortable silence.
The rocking becomes agitated, and the chains creak;
He remains the constant, allowing me to rock harder.
Slower rocking begins as my thoughts grow more pensive—
I can’t concentrate on both swinging and thinking.
The door opens, and I quickly cross my arms, my hands fisted by my side;
those who would not understand must not see our affection.
Two or three others join us, sitting in rocking chairs, enjoying the rain.
Slowly, one by one, they return to the cozy warmth inside.
Finally there is only one intruder left on the porch, but she understands.
I shiver, but I will not trade warmth for being with him;
I wrap my arms around him once more, and the rocking becomes gentle, soothing.
My sister and I talk as I rock with him, much more peacefully this time.
He will not leave, even when I do. He is the constant. He has seen many before me
and will see many after. I am just a variable. But he does not act as if he is
superior. He treats me as if I am the first, the last one to ever sit in his embrace.
And for that I am thankful. I love him—the old swing.
this is dedicated to Mr. Weathers ;-}
