A poem, sometimes, is an accumulation of memories.
This one is like that. It goes all the way back to my childhood, when I would sit on the steps and watch the sky in the evening. It was like magic, the way the stars would start popping out.
It was magic, too, the way the moon would come floating up over the hills, like a giant balloon set loose to spend the night with us.
Lightning bugs would emerge, and there would be a chorus of sounds from the trees and the nearby fields. Occasionally there would be the hooting of an owl, or ... somewhere in the distance ... the mournful call of the whippoorwill.
I thought of those evenings many times, when I was in places distant from that beginning. There weren't always steps to sit on in the evening, and it was often a day job, rather than "chores," that brought fatigue settling onto me at the end of the day.
But I found comfort in thinking about those evenings, so long ago. I still do.
And now, the poem:
AFTER THE CHORES
Night voices rise
in growing chorus
as I sink to the steps
and sit, watching,
waiting like a child,
for a first twinkle
on that darkening
blue dome of sky.
(originally published in Capper's)
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Thank you, Helen, for finding time during your travels to stop by for a visit here ... and for that electronic pat on the back. I'm delighted that you found this a comforting poem. Happy trails ...