• There is this front porch
    where we all gather
    We sit in the wicker
    And sing to our souls content.

    The summer air never fades
    but becomes brisk with the darkening
    The mosquito candle flickers
    And so does the radio.

    The sound, it crackles and dies
    The silence is deafening
    No one sang, no one moved
    It was the loudest silence.

    My father yelled at the old radio
    for it had disturbed the peacful rythm
    It had died on this choir
    But why should the voices die with it?

    So the tune continued through my own lips
    I began to sing without the tune
    And so we continued, laughing
    So we didn't need a song to sing.