Old Man On the Front Porch Swing

The dew lays thick on the October Morning, The last for the advent of frost. With my blanket I sit on the front porch swing, And wait for the paper to come. Leaves, weathered and brown are the spring buds now Which cover the lawn like old skin. A red squirrel watching from an old oak tree, Watching me as I'm watching him. Then down on the drive comes the gravelly crunch From under the young boy's feet, Up the old oak the squirrel suddenly jumps, The two of them never will meet. He raises his hand, waves at the old man, I join my slow wave with a smile. It's this old man's house; he saves last on his route Where he stays to talk for a while. Climbing he savors each wooden porch stair Which greet him with creaking and moans. While the dew softly whispers a mist in the air, The morning sun kisses it gold. Behind the screen door I disappear for A moment, he's keeping his peace To search for a way, the right words to say - No more he'll be visiting me. A silent farewell from inside the screen door, A deep breath before I return. "She's the best of the litter and she's yours", Then I hand him a bundle of fur. I already know what he says is so, Tomorrow his family is leaving. As he walks down the drive without saying goodbye, I watch from the front porch swing. The snow lays thin on this November Morning, There'll be more before winter's done. Wrapped warm as I sit on my front porch swing And wait for the paper to come.