For Sitting On The Porch. . .


For almost half of my life,  we lived in the one home during our marriage.  And maintenance was my responsibility except for big construction work which was hired out.  Every spring, staining the porch, (it is now called deck)  was mine.   And the first call of balmy weather had me with roller and brushes beginning.  It was an all day affair to get it evenly covered.  So the rest of the ritual was planting the hanging pots and barrels with the annuals. I stained the barrels and everything that was wood with Oxford Brown.  I loved the color.   The placing of the summer furniture completed the work.   It was a secluded refuge.

Early morning and dusk into evening were the best times for sitting.  Early morning for the greeting of the birds ready to acknowledge, by a brief halt in their singing,  my good morning.  But evening when I sat in the oncoming dark with my mind’s work in progress,  I was haunted by memories which kept me company.  Never feeling alone but accompanied by centuries of companions who stood and looked with wonder with similar eyes fastened on the sky.  Seeing perhaps what my eyes did now.


For Sitting On The Porch. . .

It is a night
for sitting on the porch.
The night is soft
and there is a breeze about.
Soft.  A love night. . . .
How could it be better?

Only to share with an Other
whose eyes see as mine do;
the shapes of the trees
against the darkening sky.
The maples are round
like balloons;
the irregular Tamarack
whose wispy needles
look like bare branches.

The feel of the night
like a caress,
a loving touch,
a whisper.

I was the night and all of my Self in it.


2 responses to “For Sitting On The Porch. . .”

  1. Dearest Veronica (the flower nickname for Veronica is “Speedwell”), your post reminds me of my grandparents, who sat out in wicker chairs every evening. It was indeed a sacred ritual for them for 50 years. Many of their generation did the same, on the lovely porches.

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