The leaves they blew like furls of curling bees
A chair stands cold and lonely against the grasp of sea.
It waits with upward arms, its love for you to see.
For moments pass to hours but soft its pillows shown
To touch and hold its owner when day's long strife is done
The window looks upon it and sings a little tune
For partners in the moment, they pass the time in muse.
Then light turns into scarlet withdrawn without a pun,
A weary, troubled body comes back when work has gone.
To watch from certain vantage while waves they dance as one.
The chair it smiles and holds her, renewed with purpose fun
For this the moment surely, her maker's work was done.
- Trish 2013
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