Porch Lights from Bulloch Hall to the Greenway

Lyrics

The sun is a warm hand on the back of the hill. 
7:42 p.m.
One light flickers on. 
And then another.

On Bulloch Avenue, the old lamps still try to hiss. 
A sound from before the wires.
James Stephens Bulloch built his porch to catch this exact light.
I see Mittie standing here, the year is 1853, waiting for a carriage.
Her dress is white against the dusk.
The light is gold in the glass of the front door.
A quiet signal.

It’s a long line of light, you see.
A single thread pulled through the years.
From a gas flame behind beveled glass...
to a bare bulb on a new-built frame.
A welcome. 
A promise.
The last light left on for you.

Down by Vickery Creek, the water runs slow and brown.
Thick with September leaves and silt from the old mill.
The stone arches of the bridges hold the dark.
But the porch light finds a way down.
Catches on the moving surface.
And somewhere on the lowest footing stone, a mason’s quiet mark.
R.K. 1841.
A name carved in the foundation, holding up the path home.

It’s a long line of light, you see.
A single thread pulled through the years.
From a gas flame behind beveled glass...
to a bare bulb on a new-built frame.
A welcome. 
A promise.
The last light left on for you.

The path runs from the ruins, all the way out to the Greenway.
Past the new bungalows, tucked in the pines.
Their lights are LED, cool and white.
A different kind of fire.
A different kind of family behind the screen door.
But the welcome is the same.
The whip-poor-will calls from the floodplain.
The boards are still warm under my feet.

A town named for a first name.
A town of front doors.
And I’m standing at mine, watching the line stretch back.
Watching it go forward.
Just one more light in the long, quiet string.