Sitting on a Porch Swing at a Hills and Hollars Farm
on Rocky Hill Road, near Bonnieville, Kentucky at 7:02 Central Time on My 65th Birthday
Facing east on the porch swing,
I see the shadowy silver maples of winter
tapped with light
painted on like silver leaf in winter shadow
backed by a rising arc of first light.
My wife and I, on our cold porch swing,
Windchimes, a pair of them like us,
shivering out a dischord in minor keys,
D minor and E minor,
into the hollars of the dawn,
our facing panorama.
I snap a shot of whatever lives inside that pan–
stone steps | dormant roses | thrumming nuthatches| the maples’ sap not yet rising
It streams into my phone eye mind.
I put away the camera
as the dawn pipes itself in general, signaling the day’s ‘on-and-on’.
The springs on the porch swing creak steady with the weight of cold.
Singing to us—“Home, home, home.”
Waving us toward that finish line.