The Chair

When I was four, I would sit on the floor
beside my dearest chair
whose worn-down wood curved smoothly, stood
so quietly, aware.
We spoke together silently,
my head on its upholstery,
the best of friends.
We understood the longer hours,
things wood knows but never tells
except to those who think like trees,
slow with words, whose life depends
on winds and bugs and others’ whims
that fly and leave us standing there
until the men with buzzing saws
cut and trim and polish us
into friendly chairs.
On afternoon when daylight’s end
set the corner shadows free
and those I missed did not miss me,
I ran for shelter in the chair
that stayed near, waiting patiently.
I held its armrest firmly, falling
half-asleep until its presence
led me to a great chair forest
gathered there to welcome us -
and over us, a canopy
of light green shimmering leaves. 

Siham Karami

If you have any comments on this poem, Siham Karami would be pleased to hear them.