On the porch of the old folks' home,
history rocks in wicker chairs,
flowing from failing hearts,
and blue lips,
recalling yesterday's chants.

It spills over the railings
into the garden, where
the stories are memorized,
and retold by the roses
to a world that too soon forgets.

Blue lips become vermillion,
and hearts beat stronger
when history flows again,
from a time when lithe bodies danced,
and days came on a silver tray.

01/28/2002

Posted on 01/28/2002
Copyright © 2026 Jane E Pearce