by Patricia Arnold

Created on: November 22, 2009

The Porch

She stands patiently, waiting;

Rosa knows the shape of their silhouettes,

each of her children.

The gait of their walks,

the shape of their heads.

Just as she called to them in '67;

skies orange and black with smoke,

ablaze from the rage in the streets.

One by one, she knew,

her children were on their way home.

And she calls,

from the big front porch,

one by one.

First Michael, then Paul.

Home to rest, in the bosom of love,

in the love of His arms.

She waits, patiently;

for when all their days are done,

her children will return to her heavenly porch,

and rest from the weary days,

since first she left them.

She knows their very silhouette,

and waits to call them home.

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