I sat on our old porch swing tonight;

A relic from a time now past.

I thought of the days when I was a child,

And convinced my simple life would last.

Grandma's swing was painted white,

And a home-made cushion softened the seat.

At the end of the porch, morning glories grew

Winding themselves upward, the roof to meet.

After supper, when days' work was done,

We'd enjoy the last rays of light.

We'd escape to the porch to talk

And pass the time until it was night.

Grandma's hands were busy mending.

Her talk was about simple, everyday things.

A hen that she was trying to set,

Or pickles she'd made, or peppers to string.

The insects that sang would forecast the weather,

Long before the 6 o'clock news came into being.

People seemed to be more alert back then.

They spent more time really hearing and really seeing.