Cover collage by Jan Keough
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Every microchap
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Rocking Chair
No one sat on the creaky rocker to watch our black and white TV. Its noisy squeaks annoyed us.
No one told us that Grandmother found the chair in an abandoned house without walls, while Grandfather panned for gold. She spied a grim-grey rocker on a dirty floor, restored it by hand with cane, needlepoint, stain, railroaded it east for our comfort on squalling nights.
We didn’t understand the music of its dry joints. Harsh songs. Eerie winds. How little we knew of desolation. Of those who loved us, far away.
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Peggy Turnbull© 2018
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Evening Abstract
Soft, slow flakes descend like jazz piano. I study the offering sky, feel its gentle empathy, how it lures me to the downy sidewalk, unmarred by blower or boot-print. I shuffle through soundless streets while day leaches light. Mother Sky casts a mantle over sleeping roots, corms, rhizomes. How silent, their shelter. How intimate, this night.
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Peggy Turnbull © 2018
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