my roving eye catches
on a crisp September morn
meadows wet with dew
late summer blooms
and cattle corn still tall in the fields

bales of gold so nicely placed
as a picture in my mind
like Mother’s pumpkin pie
and barns full of sweet hay
for a game of hide-and-go-seek

sweeping orchards
giving up their fruit fragrant the air
beckoning another day
to taste a sweet ripe fruit
in cool shade of a lazy afternoon
basking in glorious Indian summer
storing memories
for winter daydreams …

— E. M. COURTEMANCHE

(Originally published Christmas, 1999.)