We're having a summer thunderstorm this evening, and I sat on the porch to watch it for awhile.  I used to write poetry, nothing good, but mine, and I haven't written any for many years.  As I sat there and enjoyed the little storm, the beginnings of this poem came to me as if poured into my brain:

Summer Poem for Missing Friends

Come, sit with me on this summer porch,
and watch the rain,
hear thunder boom and roll and gutters drip, drip, drip,
the skies awash to whisk away the evening heat.
We could speak of many things,
of spider's webs and dragonflies
and kites and shoes and motorcycles,
sip our sweet, sweat-beaded tea
the bits of ice dissolving into pools atop the glass.

The wooden bench-slats flex beneath our weight,
damp concrete floor cool underfoot. 
We'd loll and laugh and linger there,
our voices soft, our friendship strong,
a gentle breeze to tease my hair
and cool our heated flesh.

The smell of fresh-cut grass is good,
and, too, the scent of rain-soaked air
so clean, and light, and perfect. 
 
And how are you today, dear friend?
I've missed you so.
Will you please come and sit with me a bit?
I've saved a special place for you, right there.

It's been so long since you and I just sat, we two,
and spoke
and shared a glass.
I've missed you so.
I hope you're well, and have you changed?
I feel you, still, beside me here,
as if I could put out my hand
and take yours up within it.

There are such things that I would say
were I to have you here with me
to sit and watch this summer's rain
and hear the drip, drip, drip
of time too short and running fast.
I miss you so.
Come sit with me.

Rebecca Yoder 
Second Day of July, 2011