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.