I am left with only memory
I creep into the day
past landscapes of home
I still can hear the squeak
of a wooden farmhouse floor
I still can hear the voices
this time of year in autumn
I cannot wait to get outdoors
the air is crisp and cool
the muted colors of fall
blanket the hills with images
the woods are like a magnet
within the shadowed copse
the animals prepare for winter
donning their thick fur coats
I know that we are ready
the harvest is stored
the jars are on the pantry shelf
so it is as I grow old
the lessons were so simple
yet hard to fulfill
memory brings them back
all that matters is history
all that ever mattered is there
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
captured a beautiful thoughts, nice poem.