Coming Home

The leaves of season play upon the porch
       That once welcomed little feet of my youth,
While the slapping screan door speaks the language,
       Of weathered years experienced alone.

Peering through the brown film of broken glass,
        Empty rooms guide my mind to yesterday,
And the whippoorwill that becons the days last rays,
         Pierces the silence in my soul.

                                                                 B. Gonzalez