The Old Front Porch

Written by: Michael Smith

Timber bones moan and mumble The creaks each old plank familiar makes Every step back a memory humble Wakes the spirit of this home and lets it tremble Ignoring me, phantom kids run outside to play Past this dog august in my remembrance And clearly I can hear our mother say "You children come back in here this instance" Beneath my feet thistles homestead under shadow's song Filling every dark place with something that's living And doorways cling with screens barely holding on Dead doornails and aching hinges, I can almost hear them thinking Or, the ticking of the clock; acorns hitting upon a hot tin roof Guts of gutters swinging under torn shingle grooves Boy, it seems like nature has a thing or two to prove As it slowly takes my childhood away, even if I refuse Still, the rain barrels guard her from every corner Spilling over with ancient emerald green Holding together all my boyhood dreams, and getting warmer Are the days in fondness of long ago, when from this porch I anything could believe