Anchored

She calmly unlocks the front door

as the wind flings the screen

through wild tantrums. She droops down

into her dusted rocker, pushing

with her lavender heels to start the sway.

Her sole taps softly,

as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer

and the porch plays in discord

through dancing lace. 

Interwoven hands lie atop her lap

in a sea of navy with floral ships 

at its surface. Silver strands

fall from her clouded bun

and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.

With jaded eyes she looks at the corner

to a poor table, where a cold candle

peaks among a grassy field of melted wax

riddled with burnt fuses. 

And near the candle, a dusted white hat

remains anchored to the wooden surface.

She can still smell the stale cigar smoke

lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”

she thinks as her daze slowly sets in. 

The world seems quiet

as she fills her eyes with sleep

and the chair continues its march.

Her hands unlock from their grasp

and the screen door gently knocks.