Poems From The Porch
The call of one of the birds reminds me of the sound the swing made on the playground
when I was flying forward and backward on it as a child.
It is a sweet memory
but not better than sitting on my porch this morning.
It is the first day of September,
and I am considering the passage of time and how we mark it.
I like the changing of the seasons
and how I don’t have to search for them.
They come to me right where I am.
It is true that summer brings hurricanes.
Autumn offers mosquitoes.
Ice descends in winter,
and rain falls in spring.
It is also true that summer invites swimming.
Autumn blooms color.
Toasty fires warm us in winter,
and flowers grace the spring.
Birth, education, giving birth, contributing, and relaxing into non-striving
are the seasons of our lives.
When I was a child, I played.
I’d like to say that I have always played,
but it would not be true.
I thought I was meant to work.
I see the folly now,
and so I am playing again.