Rain + Chair

I’m sitting inside tabor space, a coffee house and church combo. The rain is pending behind all the stained glass. The pastel colors are unable to project from the gray light outside. The room is huge but hugs you as you enter. The warm browns of the wooden vaulted ceiling welcome you home. In this room without a view I plan to sit and gauge the light, waiting for the rain to greet my day with a soft pat across the stained glass.

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Worn wear of a chair
when were you new?
have you ever left
the conversations
you heard on the table?
Were you here in 1910
built in solid wood
when the Sundays busseled
and doug firs filled the sky?
Do you know your wood,
see your past life when you sleep?
Worn chair
Do you know the names
of those you’ve touched
shared as a bystander
in unimportant chats
and important reconnections?
Do you understand their
topics, otherworldly,
outside these walls
Worn chair are you eternal?
When you burn or rot
do you go anywhere
or keep on keeping
watch on that next
set of souls to sit
down and discover
the matters that matter.