Thursday Evening In Passing, June 1952

It's nearing dusk, in your small corner of America.
The trees are still and the grass still green
And here hope abounds along the streets.

You find yourself passing through a park
With children laughing among the trails,
Marveling at the world made brand new.

Heading back through town you pass the church,
Lights aglow with steeple reaching for the stars.
Hallowed hymns on hallowed ground.

Stopping at the bakery on Main Street,
Something warm, something fresh;
A loaf of French bread would do nicely.

Passing through the neighborhoods,
Runners and sprinklers and sometimes the both,
Decorate the sidewalks in the deepening evening.

Home, the lights are on and music unfurls through the windows,
Marrying itself to the crickets, the creaking trees, and distant thunder.
Was there ever a more magnificent life than this?