On the porch with Liza

Every Thursday at 1:00.
Unless we forget, of course,
Or grace needs to be ladled out
For some embarrassing reason.

The porch rockers sit ready,
Perhaps a little dusty,
But nothing that a quick sweep of the hand
Can't brush away.

Cars trundle by
As the heat sneaks onto the shaded porch.
We sip our cold drinks
And settle in for a slice of heaven.

Angst might be confessed
Or hurt shared or advice sought.
What ifs and whys rise to the surface with
Dreams and worries and almost always laughter.

As we rock, the little girls
Tumble and giggle, fuss or jabber,
Parading new outfits
Or splashing in the stream the hose has carved.

Hannah Coulter opens to the next chapter,
And the gentle cadence of Wendell Berry
Takes us to another time and place,
Making this time and this place deeply ours.

A song bird splashes yellow across the sky,
While Gordon barks gruffly to protect his turf.
The wandering hen cackles and pecks,
And this humble hour steeps in wonder.

We feel Hannah's heartache
And healing and passion,
Returning to a particular word or phrase
And marveling at a man writing what a woman feels.

A chapter is all we read,
And when it is over we sigh
Over the beauty of it all,
And we take one last, deep breath before moving on.

Every Thursday at 1:00.
Another chapter, a dear friend.
I return to simpler days,
And share an hour on the porch with Liza.