Front porch swing, November night. inky blue sky, twinkling stars
A Chevy van idles, its pistons cry for an oil change
a leaf drops across the street, swoops and glides
my daughter curls against my chest for warmth

I want a few quiet minutes
but tractor trailers and buses won't yield their time
A white Monte Carlo rolls by, music blasting
low-rider pickups and teenage foot-draggers

Back stoop, daughter's in bed
the full moon shines like a police chopper spotlight
neighbor's windows flicker with TV light like bug-zappers
something rustles in the leaves

Back in my daughter's room
banishing monsters with my guitar
the quiet is within the chords
the strings create solitude

Front porch, November night
my Washburn blocks the woman cursing at her dog
the chuckleheads wandering the streets
Chords as a prayer, a rosary for stillness

It's dark at five o'clock
the rain is washing away the leaves
another season flushed into oblivion
leaving piles of flotsam and regret

The sky is grey at eight a.m.
tinting memories of Saturday's sun
with a mask of autumnal finality
I hate Standard Time.

But there's nothing as beautiful
as a child on a leaf-strewn trail
beneath a canopy of maroon and gold
with holes of cold, crisp blue

And there's nothing quite as sweet
as grabbing that moment of mortality
It's fall, it's harvest time
and you're reaping the fruits of summer memory