-This poem reflects on a screened porch at evening as a threshold space where summer slows into shelter, quiet, and lingering light.
The woven chairs hold evening light,
their arms still warm from all the day,
while through the mesh the yard leans close,
in leaf, and shade, and drifting sound.
A glass sweats slowly on the table,
the boards give back a softened heat,
and somewhere in the deepening trees,
the last bird folds the hour in song.
No wall divides the house from night,
not fully, not in such a place,
where air moves free, and silence keeps,
the tender weight of what remains.
This is one way summer rests,
not gone, not dark, not wholly still,
but gathered in a sheltered hush,
where light and living linger on.