Barry Sanders

the porch steps up to the house have been ravaged
by weather and time
they lead to my grandfather's house
spring street, late december, dark by noon

inside my brother and i paint the walls
and i think of my mother
as a little girl bounding up those steps
with schoolbooks and the hope of youth

in the basement i find the woodworking tools
they carved the little blocks as i child i would
i would play with
in the sandbox in the backyard

i'm no longer a child
my mother is sick
i think of her running up the front steps
the day she met my father

they met while carving pumpkins
was her heart full of hope?
racing with the promise
of young love?

and years later, two of her sons
repaint the walls of the house
on spring street
watching the Lions