When I was five,
I sat with my Great Grandmother
on her porch swing,
in the summer
and sang sweet hymns to the wind.
My voice was soft, elementary and frail.
Her voice was strong, defined and beautiful.
When I was ten
I sat on her porch swing
in the humid summer
and watched the fireflies pass,
as we sang sweet hymns to the wind.
My voice was strong, defined and loud.
Her voice was weak, crackly and dying.
Now I sit alone
on my Great Grandmother's porch swing
in the misty fall
and sing sweet hymns
to my Great Grandmother's spirit,
wherever she may be.
My voice is sad, soft and weak, but still strong.
The wind whistles along the roads.
She is with me somewhere.
I sing her favorite song,
and the wind blows harder.
