She saved her visits for late in the day,
After the fields had been mowed,
The chores completed and supper eaten,
The last clean dish put away.

They would sit on the porch
Watching and listening and reflecting.
It was a quiet time,
A gentle peace in their pattern of things,
Punctuated only by the squeaking of the swing and
The comforting sounds of nightfall.

Often she finds herself watching
Her youthful gaze to theirs,
Searching for those answers that are found
Just under the surface:

A cat intent of his evening saunter,
An air redolent with the sweet scent
Of wild honeysuckle, wrapping around her
Like fresh, clean linen,
And off in the distance,
The song of the whippoorwill.