Some nights I pray only for silhouettes.
For visions outlined and still motion.
For placid envy resting only in the breeze.
The summer will never rest from itself, it seems,
And my body is still wet from the day.
Too much of what was said lies awake in the streets.
Watch it resurface with the mystics below the mist,
Spindled and snaked along the sweat of our backs.
There are people here, too, you know,
With questions of why the darkness falls so late
When they saw it coming sooner.
Leave them silent on the porch.
Let us languish inside the comfort of other souls
When the night rests still.
Words left them long ago,
And their minds hold questions only for their eyes.
Like the breeze, they speak to themselves.
The ages bring this, tells the night.
The summer day will never rest—
It hides next to the sun.
From the porch we wait for answers.
Questions snake around your silhouette.
The morning will bring more.
Aging Together on the Porch
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