A favorite springtime activity at the Crainshaw Hunter house is front porch sitting and rocking. We have two big ole rockers that I inherited from my Mom and Dad’s. My Mom and Dad were well-known carport sitters and rockers.
Front porch rocking during this season has been an even nicer springtime gift than usual. Our yard’s flowers are in full costume, and the robins and finches and cardinals are in full voice. Neighbors stop as they walk by to say “hello.”
So–we wait through these pandemic days, and we rock.
Like ocean tides.
A breeze in greening treetops.
A smiling crescent moon.
Rocking swings us back. Forward. Centers us.
And reminds us of Creation’s rhythms, a reminder I’ve needed apart from the arrhythmia caused by this pandemic.
This poem draft emerged out of some of my front porch pondering and reflects my hope that we recognize some blessings amid the uncertainty of these days.
cradling magic
the tree shuddered
leaned forward
bent over backward
collapsed
with a fire-cracking boom
hurled last years
nests to the ground
lightning curtsied
skittered away
and grandpa headed outside
to pay respect to the fallen one
i looked at him
looking at the tree
rubbing a crooked finger
and calloused thumb along the rim
of his sweat-stained red
international harvester cap—
it was magic
or so the story goes
of how grandpa charmed
that wounded tree
into granting him
seven slats curved
to ease an aching back
two sturdy rests for
work-weary forearms
a pair of swaying rockers
to nest grandma
who nested babies who
cradled the magic for
seeing rocking chairs in trees
Salt 