The Chairs Tale
For decades I grew in a foreign land,
by a forest unclaimed by mortal man.
Here the trees were old and strong,
silent but for the wild bird's song.
Man came and named the forest "Black,"
and many of us were felled by the axe.
I was hewn and carved with care,
skillfully crafted: a beautiful chair.
My wood is carved with vines and blooms,
my beauty has graced a hundred rooms,
oiled and waxed by countless hands,
a silent witness since time began.
I remember the forest, silent and pure,
and the craftsman so skilled, and yet so poor.
I remember each household, each parent and babe,
each kitten curled up and the purr that they made.
Now I reside in a museum of art,
roped off from all touch, it's breaking my heart.
The people come and they stand and they stare,
and none of them realize that--I am aware.
©Danielle White
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