The Adirondack Chair
by Robert H. Demaree Jr.

    Between the screened porch and the tool shed,
    Back from the pond,
    Sat my mother’s white Adirondack chair,
    Where she would shell peas
    Of a light New Hampshire afternoon 40 Julys ago.
    You might call it a yard,
    Except for grass there were ferns, maple seedlings, and
    Sprouting amid the pine needles
    A score of things I could not name.
    In time the chair fell apart, began to rot,
    Returning to the rocky soil whence it had come.
    I could not let the space sit empty.
    I got a white Adirondack chair of molded plastic
    At the Walmart on the highway,
    Near where the farmstand had been.






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