Blackberry Summer, Phase Four

I brush the palette on the canvas
And a white farmhouse sits on top of the verdant hill,
Surrounded by the flowing blanket of ancient fields,
Where the gospel wind
Breathes the breath of God softly across my temples
And brings me to ground, whispering through the branches,
My family and I sit in discarded metal lawn chairs,
Comfortable in our surroundings,
Unmindful of the groaning of the old metal.
High in the ancient oaks
Birds whisper "Bob White",
Through the thick-tongued humid air,
And we are rocked upon the rolling waves of memory,
Preserved behind punched tin
And kept for tomorrow's feast.
The leaving of the light and the advent of the night
Bring no concern. Even in the fading light there is no concern,
Because we are all together,
In the metal chairs from yesterday, talking softly, again,
Among the muscular trees
Which stretch above us
As a canopy to this thin Summer slumber.