Sunday, March 30, 2014

Sister Series


Above sounds of a sunset world
whoops of children rise. We lean against
our slatted bench, watch the streetlight
evolve like some star-- buzzing blue to white,
then a steady nostalgic amber. 

The widow in white climbs our hill, her secrets
folded in her apron. I’ve seen her nap here
like your auntie might: one eye to the world,
sandals dangling off her toes.

The man next door pedals his bicycle slow,
the way your father did. We worry
for his balance. He waves to us like laundry
on a line, his half-hearted surrender.

Houses tuck themselves in. Lamps flicker on,
rising story by story. Silence blooms, holding
its breath.
I sweep the pots of flag-striped flowers
from our porch, crockery from the table. 

You need more room on this veranda.
I will make room for you.


Iulia Flame said...

Front porches are a place where histories can take a seat and collect themselves.

Cheryl Snell said...

Well put!