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