Porch Reflections

The sun drips low, the evening spills sweet,

old wood creaks softly beneath my bare feet.

A hush wraps the air, thick as time,

while shadows stretch, mingling with rhyme.

Ghosts of laughter ripple through leaves,

whispers of summers where no one believes,

we'd sit like a line of sentinels still,

watching the twilight coax in the chill.