Porch Pew in Summer

       -- for Brian and Wilbur Frink 

Richard Robbins

Never a prayer for some place more than this, 

 wild turkeys in the field where old years blaze 

 each December into new, where grandkids 

 roam the drive now, in charge of cat, daisy, 

spontaneous song. Any ten disciples 

 might take their rest on this long crafted oak 

 left to weather. Wine all around then, the spell 

 of day sinking in a gospel of talk. 

And on quiet nights, painting or writing done, 

 the garden weeded, house projects holding 

 for the time being, two people might lean 

 to one another on the pew, holding 

hands in the spreading dark, these few candles 

 lighting up the sanctuary, the world.