Porch-Sitting: The Art of Slow Time

Lyrics

The day’s heat finally breaks its grip.
The sun goes low behind the gables.
This is when the work is done.
The real work begins.

These houses were built for it.
The Craftsman bungalow, with its deep eaves and its stout columns.
An outdoor living room, they called it.
Before the hum of the condenser unit replaced the breeze.
The wicker chairs are out, cushions still damp from the afternoon shower.
A tall glass of sweet tea sweats onto a small wooden table.
No invitation was ever sent.
None was ever needed.

This is the art of slow time.
The gentle observation of the street.
A curriculum of passing cars and dog walkers.
A quiet treaty signed across a lawn with just a nod.
The unspoken understanding that here, in this space between the door and the world,
We are all present.
We are all accounted for.

The air is thick with the smell of wet red clay from the garden beds.
Confederate jasmine climbs the trellis, releasing its scent into the evening.
Water still drips from the oak leaves, a patient percussion.
From across the way, the blue flicker of a television through a window.
But out here, the light is gold and fading.
The only screen is the one on the door.

This is the art of slow time.
The gentle observation of the street.
A curriculum of passing cars and dog walkers.
A quiet treaty signed across a lawn with just a nod.
The unspoken understanding that here, in this space between the door and the world,
We are all present.
We are all accounted for.

The elders knew this rhythm.
Their parents before them.
A language taught without words, just by example.
The raising of a glass, a subtle greeting.
The wave to a child on a bicycle.
It's a promise that you are seen.
That this small patch of neighborhood holds together.
Not by laws, but by wicker and ice cubes and shared silence.

The streetlights hum to life.
A porch light clicks on down the block.
Then another.
The crickets take the stage.
The day is put to bed.
Gently.