Two houses sit side by side on a quiet residential street.
In one, lives a man with an unlatched gate,
always ready to pause his lawnmower
to ask how your mother is doing,
offering a spare hand when it appears one is needed,
or leaving a basket of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers on the porch step
just because the harvest was good.
In the other lives a shade-peeker, a shadow behind pulled blinds,
who measures his property line down to the inch,
grumbling heavily under his breath when an autumn leaf crosses the boundary,
starting his car engine, revving with an intentional roar,
building a higher fence
out of a quiet, lingering spite.
For years, the coldness attempts to stake its claim,
trying to choke out the light with petty grievances
and silent, harsh glances.
Yet bitterness only locks a person inside their own small fortress,
leaving them alone with the echoes of their own noise,
and barring the door from the inside.
When the real storms roll through,
it isn't the tall fence or the sharp words that hold fast.
The stubborn, simple kindness wins out every time,
outlasting the cold
and leaving a light on in the dark.
I have known many porches throughout the years,
some adorned in laughter and some wrought with tears.
Porches where warm breezes floated o'er the plains,
and the sunlight shimmered ‘cross green waves of grain.
Porches below mountains that stood tall and proud,
their snowcapped peaks towering into the clouds.
Porches where sea mist fell across our faces,
and ships horns faded to faraway places.
Porches lost in the shadows of steel and glass,
the sky had no sunshine and yards had no grass.
Porches that looked out across strange foreign lands,
some with views of forests, some jungles, some sand.
Porches 'neath a sky filled with millions of stars,
miles away from the closest ribbon of cars.
Porches where the song of birds greeted each day,
and summer breezes brought the smell of fresh hay.
Porches from where I've watched the day start anew,
and sunsets that filled the sky with wondrous hue.
No matter the time, the place or the weather,
I've loved all the porches we've shared together.
On porches bathed in brilliant sun
enduring friendships are begun.
On moonlit porches, arm in arm,
sweethearts display romantic charm.
On countless porches you will find
retirees resting weary minds.
An old house with an old porch
Is a most miraculous thing.
Politics are settled, children admonished,
Babies shown off and growing up,
Advice shared – we need more porches,
Fewer therapists, values taught, not anything goes.
Where mothers wait for suppers to cook,
And young housewives seek company,
Where daddies later come home and gather,
Joking with the paper boy, watching the cartwheels,
Some drink a beer, but mostly there’s grown-up talk.
Summertime on our corner brought so many droppers by.
The world would be a better place if
There were just more porches.
On porches bathed in brilliant sun
enduring friendships are begun
as neighbors air their hurts and joys
and children learn to share their toys.
On moonlit porches, arm in arm,
sweethearts display romantic charm.
The night was made for them, it seems.
Love fills the air and starlight gleams.
On crowded porches, trips are planned
by those who dream of surf and sand
or snow-capped mountains far away.
They'll have their respite, come what may.
On countless porches, you will find
retirees resting weary minds.
They've other things than work to tend;
they're waiting for their second wind.
Old porches now in disrepair
attached to homes bereft and bare
still echo with the lives of those
who have gone on to sweet repose.
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