The Swing on Aunt Ruby’s and Uncle Hubert’s Porch in Georgia Twilight
Slow days passing, accumulating–
How distant they are,
The things of the past.
~ Buson
The slow days come and go, but creeping, so
Drudged they seem to be going back. Suns
Set slowly on them, slackening. They grow
As slowly as the algae in the runs
Of trickling water over stones. The creek
Beyond the farmhouse fields in August, hot
And rainless, almost stops. It seems to sneak
Away towards death. Aunt Ruby’s eyes have caught
An ailment, putting time in gears that grind.
A halt comes in the humid evening. At least
That’s how it feels out on the porch. Day’s rind
Is rotting. Seemingly the clock has ceased.
Long days pile up on red clay dusks. They stack
Up ponderously. They almost backtrack.
~ Phillip Whidden