Stray Touch of the Summer Porch

This is the bending porch. In time, green is silly: those mock orange blossoms contain mental image pressed into white flowers just to grow. Beyond, the strange important patch of waiting that places all time in writing. Then the rains come, children. Then leaves fall. Then, dears all, snow begs the question. Waiting to a luck of finding out, you, love, you. The mock orange, the sighing ferns, and a planet still in love. No, the trees are not just heavenly, but (pausing in the smell) quiet with the resolve to fill the year. The year waits. The green where people walk is given. Then storms, again and again. The rain of spring is over. The rain of summer builds. Wait for snow, the dying sigh of mock orange blossoms. The angle of the sun creates a blush in trees. You forget the warm soil, friends. Or are you awake when the sentence begins? Quaking middle of the day when the green is lively with people, common ground. The sights are fine for having. A clutch of mosquitoes and the dog urges eager. Birds are incredible, dated to the pause. When we sit, it happens forever. Even street noise includes our words. The bending porch is tonal and strong. When all waking needs us, we ready our impression. Vast flowers, that is, keep all of us together.