She sits on the porch alone
as we drive by.
Stop on your way back.
Past the house,
we turn up the hill that’s almost too steep.
The trees reach out and touch the car.
as if to comfort, as if they know.
In the clearing, faded flowers lean
in front of slabs of stone,
forever marking the place
where we visit those
we can no longer visit.
Gospel music from across the hollow
filters through the trees.
Dusk is creeping closer.
Has it been that long already?
We leave because we must.
She sits on a swing
built by her husband’s father,
so many year ago.
We sit in rockers
and talk.
The porch is painted white,
the floor boards brick red.
Once-sharp edges are now round
from years of touch
by those who rest on
the hill above.
The swing creaks back and forth,
a soothing lullaby.
Nearby a bird calls in strong song.
Farther away, another answers.
Still another sings the song of
the solitary bird.
A frog croaks.
Just one, for now.
Others will follow later.
A cool breeze brings relief
from the hot, muggy day.
The serenity of the world
from the porch
is comforting.
All things of youth
are memories now.
He is gone.
Though there are friends,
though there is family,
she is alone.
She embraces the solitude.
I love this porch, she says.
In the mornings
on the swing
by myself.
I am blessed.
The Lord
brought him
to me.
And he brought me
to this house,
this porch.
And now,
though alone,
I am blessed.
copyright joseph e bird, 2016
Joseph E Bird 