My chimes are rhythmic and tolling like bells,
soft and sailing towards sun.
There’s someone mowing the lawn
and I could smell cigarette smoke,
coming from next door.
Brie is coming down the stone steps,
walking her excitable dog, Beatrice,
waving to me.
It takes me to a higher place
when I’m stuck sitting in the sadness
without a name.
The smoke scent and the chimes singing
reminds me of another home,
an older one, but still relevant.
It’s amazing how two places
can feel like home.
I’m grateful to
never be entirely alone.
The chimes are singing their notes.
Unabashedly, the lawnmower is chopping the air waves, along with the pleading grass.
Smoke is traveling over and under
our banisters and our chairs
and I’m at peace,
with us talking and experiencing
the treat in front porch engaging.
We’re not far apart,
just one door away,
hearing you exist is just enough, some days.
The days when I am lonely,
even just a little ounce,
your voices brighten my day.
I notice, I’m happier when
I linger longer,
talk a bit.
I never regret it when I do.
The art of being alone,
can look like listening to your radio,
feeling absent but serene in being seen.
Front porch exchanges are never to go unnoticed, and never to be taken for granted. Being with such gentle souls, is far more blissful than retreating to sealed windows and locked doors
Dawning Creations 
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