Memory of a Porch

--Donald Justice

.

What I remember

Is how the wind chime

Commenced to stir

As she spoke of her childhood,

As though the simple

Death of a pet cat,

Buried with flowers,

Had brought to the porch

A rumor of storms

Dying out over

Some dark Atlantic.

At least I heard

The thing begin––

A thin, skeletal music––

And in the deep silence

Below all memory

The sighing of ferns

Half asleep in their boxes.