I once saw an old faded rocking chair,
On an otherwise empty porch.
Of an abandoned colonial -style house,
En route for a visit up north.

It moved just a tad, as if to whisper,
So I stopped for just a spell.
And wished that it could speak to me,
What stories would it tell?

Would it speak of simple innonence,
Unhurried times now gone?
But someone honked their horn at me,
And so I hurried on.