-This poem reflects on a porch swing at dusk as a place of rest, slowing, and quiet summer ease after the brightness of the day.
It moves with one small creak at dusk,
a patient arc through cooling air,
the boards still warm from all the day,
the shadows long across the yard.
The light grows soft on rail and step,
the trees hold evening in their leaves,
and from the fields beyond the fence,
the last gold settles into green.
No labor presses in this hour,
no noon remains, no bright demand,
just this slow seat, this open view,
this gentle easing into night.
To sit within that measured sway,
is to feel summer loosen wide,
and know the day does not depart,
so much as lean into its rest.