Evening

We sit on the porch at the end of day
tree frogs heralding night,
from tall brown grass in a faraway field

bobwhite whistles her covey to brood
while I wait for firefly jewels
to play sultan, sheik, and king.

Grandpa sits in an old brown chair
leaned back against a gray wall
ejecting torpedoes of tobacco spit
through fingers pursing his lips
his eyes reflect sunset’s glow
like a robe magnifying his soul.

Ma Nan rocks in her favorite chair
churning in an old Mason jar
her raspy voice sings, Home Of The Soul
while the last pale rays of sunset gold
flow through the wrinkles on her face.

Hugging my legs as the sun drops from sight
resting my cheek on my knees
serenity shivers my half-naked form
from the last of twilight’s song.

Grandpa, I asked,
Where does the sun go to hide
when it drops from the evening sky?
Well son, it travels to a place far away
and starts another day.