Classic Poem

Beyond the line of trees
against the western sky,
the bright boat of the sun
goes down, and it gets quiet.
When, peacefully as this one, evening falls,
the summers melt and merge.
I can hear the voices.

David reads Calvin"s " Institutes " all day;
washes the dishes every night. My mother
after hours in the garden conks
out on the sofa after supper. Daddy
at a rickety table in the barn
types with the same two fingers I use now,
and one especially mythic Sunday morning
startles proselytizing Jehovah"s witnesses,
intoning " Go away. There are godless people here. "