Upon this spot I rest.
I think a bird has built a nest.
My deck holds much wear
though my floors are quite bare.
My wooden walls with much decay
have seen faces of dismay.
Joy and happiness too, I've seen,
Pensive persons and perhaps some mean.
If years were pennies, I'd have two dollars,
but that don't make sense here in these hollers.
Pull up a chair and rock for a spell
and note the sillage of memories.
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