The old porch.

On this Creaky Old Porch
I stare down,
As I sit here,
On this creaky old porch,
With a cloud of thought drifting over my head,
And a cunning mind in play,
With my looks of curiosity,
And ladders and ladders of plans,
I stare at this wooden floor of memory,
It brings me back to when I was a child,
A child no older than seven,
Playing with the hose,
Or laughing with my aunt,
Making cookies,
Then stealing them from the jar,
Or when my dog ran away,
And we searched through the night,
I remember the tears,
As they poured out, for we could not find him,
And when I use to stay up and stare at the stars,
As they wandered through the night,
I remember when I had a mud fight with my father,
My mother’s laughter when she saw us walk in,
With her voice no sharper than a child’s whisper,
As she told me stories of a fantasy far away,
I remember now,
As I sit here,
On this creaky old porch,
The gravel crunches as my mother’s car presses it down,
Down into each other,
I see her happy face as I get in the car,
Our creaky old Chevy,
She looks at me,
And I look at her,
And I know we’re both going back,
To the times when that creaky old porch was our home. 
by Star Dust