The Rocking Chair Poem by Sandra Osborne

It was our first night in the old West Virginia cabin.
It had been built around 1770 and was made entirely
from hand-hewn logs and you could still see the
deep and shallow chisel marks, the cuts and level lines from the
planers and the hammers and the saws that had been used
to clear the land and build the modest small cabin by the creek.

But that night, our first night, we had been woken by
a soft creaking noise, but as I have 10 cats and 7 dogs,
well, noise abounds and crashes are ignored and even
breaking glass gets a yawn. But it wasn’t really the creaking
that woke me, thinking back, it was the movement. The lights
and shadows moving back and forth along the ancient chiseled logs.

Creaking and movement. Not exactly earth-shattering in as critter-ridden
a house as mine, but it was entirely too quiet, except for creaking,
and the rocking chair was moving. It was moving. It was rocking
and rocking and rocking and rocking. The old wicker chair looked to be
entirely empty, but the chill shiver up my spine gave evidence
that it wasn’t, and there seemed to be a woman there, faintly, maybe.

And then the noise stopped and the rocker crept to a stand still.
Weakly I crawled out of bed and inched my way toward the old rocker.
Nope, no cats. Damn, a cat or two would have explained a lot.
Thinking back, I guess the old woman just wanted to see the folks in her house,
to let us know she was there, and in her own quiet way, that she approved.
We were all really, really, really glad she did. And we slept well thereafter.