If you live in the country, you live
on front porches.
And you spend your youthful
evenings sittin’ on the front steps
of whitewashed wraparounds, sucking on
the ends of honeysuckle flowers
and licking the fingers of your childhood
best friend. You swing on wood-backed loveseats
with beaus – and, maybe, still call them beaus –
in the last few seconds before
the curfews adamantly enforced
by shotgun-wielding elders.
precarious on whitewashed railings,
and watch the stars come out, sippin’ tea
and the savory tang of cigars
as men blow cloudy smoke rings. If
you’re lucky, life ends on those front porches,
swaddled in quilts, snug in a rocker,
watching grandbabies play with kittens and learn
Between the houses and the woods,
the comfort of home and nature’s peace.
Country people live on front porches.
Haven’t been writing much new poetry lately, Fiction’s got me wrapped around it’s finger. Definitely taking some time this weekend while I’m in the Whee to go sit in a coffeehouse and write.
The end of last week was really great, the muse popping her head in and all that. Hopefully this weekend will be the same (though with midterms, no promises to put anything new of mine up for at least another week).
Sorry friends! Thanks to everyone who reads/comments/like anything here, you have no idea how much of an encouragement you are to me!