by Rob Jensen
Once we were chairs,
strong and stable, made of hard wood.
Our color was that of rich farm soil.
Now we are broken and we are gray.
Once we were chairs.
We furnished a country home.
Solid, capable, and modest,
warm food, good wine, the daily fare.
Once we were chairs,
our place at the table secure.
We supported great weights with ease.
Now, we cannot hold ourselves together.
Once we were chairs,
left out to endure the seasons.
Consigned to be broken and to rot,
no longer a part of the home.
Once we were chairs.
Only memories remain of what had been,
no more than ghosts of what we were.
Once, we were chairs.
