Thinking of this post, so I thought I would share it again.
Here is another poem from my Grandma’s scrapbooks that I illustrated with pictures I have taken.
There’s magic in the name —-
A clear sky, a blue sky,
And sunsets all aflame.
It’s harvest time again;
The high corn, the low corn,
Is gathered in the bin.
The birds sing with swelled throats;
A long song, a last song,
Of tender parting notes.
The hills are all aglow
With red leaves, with gold leaves,
That dance when soft winds blow.
I love you more each year;
Your warm days, your soft days,
To me they are most dear.
D. Maitland Bushby