The grass was green, the winter grass,
as green as spring was new.
The road was empty, swept and clean,
except for me and you.
The light was clear, the golden light,
and long the sunbeams lay
As you and I went walking
on that far November day.
We had our canes, our India canes,
that we bought as a pair;
We tramped the highway tapping them
with hardly any care.
We talked of things, of future things,
and things of futures past
And the day was decked in joy
and the day went by too fast.
The times we had, times long ago,
now long ago are gone
And memories fade as colors fade
and fading are undone;
But I shall find, and finding know,
and knowing shall remember
This poem I wrote, wrote of us two,
and a day in November.
I've spent most of this day doing prepatory chores for Thanksgiving (as per the old wives' program for Thanksgiving week: "Monday--wash; Tuesday--scour; Wednesday--bake; Thursday--devour."), mostly housecleaning and sprucing up, but also baking some of my traditional oatmeal cookies. I'm really too tired to do the original posting I wanted, so instead offer this old poem and a note. It's prophetic too--I really do remember that day vividly, thanks to these verses.