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 sanctuary1, the world.