Friday, September 27, 2013
“Mother,” said Alfred looking up from the notebook he was writing in, “this is the first day of fall, even though it doesn’t feel like it. It’s still in the 80s and it’s going to be in the 80s all week.”
“Oh, Alfred, at least it’s not over one hundred degrees. We sometimes have to take what we get. I’ve had just about enough of summer this year. What I miss ‘though is the fall colors. It’s so beautiful in New England this time of year. Even now the leaves are beginning to turn and a month from now it will be peak foliage season in New England.”
“Mother, do you remember those wonderful fall hymn-sing evenings we used to have at our church in Massachusetts when we were first married?”
“Alfred, I do,” said Mother. We would gather at the home of Mac and Wendy Parsons and sing some of those fine old hymns.”
“Yes,” said Alfred, his voice tinged with excitement, “and after the hymn sing we always had cider and donuts. Those were halcyon days!”
“What would you think, Alfred, if we invited the choir over to our place on a Sunday evening in October. I bet our Organist-Choirmaster William Weaver would enjoy playing our Seiler 168 Virtuoso piano.”
“Mother, that’s a wonderful idea. Let’s do it! I’m sure by then the fall crop of fresh cider will be in the stores once more.”
“Alfred,” said Mother suddenly, “what on earth are you writing? Every time I’ve looked over at you, you seem absolutely absorbed in something and you must have erased as many words as you have written down.”
“Well, Mother,” confessed Alfred, “I’ve been trying to write you a poem. Would you like to hear it?”
“Oh yes, Alfred,” said Mother.
Alfred began, “this is called, Autumn Winds,
When autumn winds come knocking at my door
They carry with them crispness in the air,
And all the beauty of the leaves so fair
Tell the inner beauty of she whom I adore.
In autumn love’s true springtime sings once more
But sings with a richness beyond compare
Taught by our tears and things we had to bear.
Autumn’s bounteous harvest of glad amour
Is richer far than springtime’s budding love,
And glows with the warmth of a golden light
That flows from the heart of heaven above,
For autumn’s love is fraught with Love’s delight.
I would not trade this love for springtime love.
Early love can’t compare with autumn bright.
“Oh, Alfred, how sweet of you,” said Mother, with a little catch in her voice. You know it’s true, I wouldn’t trade our time-tested love, for the love we had at the beginning of our marriage; not for all the fall colors and cider and donuts in the world.”
“Drink water from your own cistern, flowing water from your own well. … Let your fountain be blessed, and rejoice in the wife of your youth, a lovely deer, a graceful doe … be intoxicated always in her love” (Proverbs 5:15-19).