Harvest Time

A cherished memory drifts back from my childhood,
And it takes me to another place and time,
Where as a boy I played among the wildwood,
Those happy days come flooding o'er my mind.

It was fall and all the leaves were quickly changing,
From green to yellow, red and rustic brown,
The landscape they were subtlely rearranging,
As they floated ever gently to the ground.

I remember well those crisp and frosty mornings,
When we bundled up and hurried off to school,
The window panes our finger art adorning,
Those funny scenes we thought especially cool.

I can see once more our farm house on the hillside,
And the orchard sparkling in the morning dew,
I recall again the thrill of my first hayride,
As a brilliant golden moon comes into view.

A chill is in the air a soft wind blowing,
It is autumn and the winter is on it's way,
In the fields the crops we planted all are growing,
I can almost smell again that "new mown hay".

The orchard by the lane is overflowing,
The fruit is hanging low from every bough,
With apples, cherries, pears and peaches showing,
In my memory I can taste them even now.

I can see our family gather at the table,
To share a harvest feast just simply grand,
Then my dad would thank the Lord that we were able,
To enjoy, once more, the bounty of His hand.

In the evening we would share with one another,
We would count the blessings of God's wondrous store,
Then led in prayer by my dear saintly mother,
We would thank Him for His love and grace once more.

The old farm on the hill is gone forever,
But in my memory I recall it now and then,
When I see the autumn leaves fall on the heather,*
I think of home and harvest time again.
* Low growing plants such as clover
© Ken Hammack

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