Porch Swing in September

Ted Kooser is quickly becoming one of my favorite writers. His "The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice For Beginning Poets," which I'm in the middle of reading right now, inspired me to start writing poetry again after nearly 40 years. Not good poetry, but poetry nevertheless.

On Kooser's advice, I try to read at least one poem each morning. As he says, it often does color the remainder of your day. Here's one of his from "Flying at Night," which reminded me of last night when I read it this morning, sitting on the porch with Peggy, drinking our evening martinis, smoking my nightly cigar, watching the September days dim more quickly each night.

Porch Swing in September

The porch swing hangs fixed in a morning sun
that bleaches its gray slats, its flowered cushion
whose flowers have faded, like those of summer,
and a small brown spider has hung out her web
on a line between porch post and chain
so that no one may swing without breaking it.
She is saying it's time that the swinging were done with,
time that the creaking and pinging and popping
that sang through the ceiling were past,
time now for the soft vibrations of moths,
the wasp tapping each board for an entrance,
the cool dewdrops to brush from her work
every morning, one world at a time.