The grinding squeak of rusty chains

sing along with the endless back and forth of the ancient swing.

The fragrance of old man's tobacco

drifts away with the wind.

Summer evenings are the longest, it seems,

quiet nights, shadows in street lamps

pitchers of lemonade on the front porch.

Old songs on the A.M. radio

Grandpa's once - proud voice rasping along.



Moths flitted near the porchlight

warm wind banged screen door

Yesterday's songs echo in Grandpa's mind.

The stars of his youth danced above his head

in time to the tuneless melodies he hums

vague reminders of forgotten youth



Yesterday's harmonies hung in the silence he left

as he flew to the stars

in search of new songs.