Porch Swing in September

　　by Ted Kooser

　　 The porch swing hangs fixed in a morning sun

　　 that bleaches its gray slats， its flowered cushion

　　 whose flowers have faded， like those of summer，

　　 and a small brown spider has hung out her web

　　 on a line between porch post and chain

　　 so that no one may swing without breaking it.

　　 She is saying it's time that the swinging were done with，

　　 time that the creaking and pinging and popping

　　 that sang through the ceiling were past，

　　 time now for the soft vibrations of moths，

　　 the wasp tapping each board for an entrance，

　　 the cool dewdrops to brush from her work

　　 every morning， one world at a time