The intimacy of a front porch
on the summer night
was like no other place.
The tongue and grove floor
was hushed as that they stood
still beside one another.
Out in the yard fireflies
brought the starred heavens
to their level—
all calm except
butterflies in their bellies
as each searched for words
that can set this night apart
from so many other
date nights.
She searched the porch floor
for the right things to say
his eye traced smooth white legs
subconsciously until stunned
by their own silence
their eyes meet—
words no longer matter.
2011 © Michael A. Wells
Picture credit: Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947
I could feel the wood floor of the porch under my bare feet. Lovely write, Michael.
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