An Autumn Whisper
Close your eyes and imagine,
If you had one more moment,
One morning,
One evening,
What would you do?
Would you walk down narrow streets,
Gaze up to windows of houses
Neighbored together and think:
Do they know me?
Will they think of me
When I am gone?
Would you meet a friend and whisper:
I love you.
Would you lay in the grass
And consume perfumes of autumn?
Would you drive down a quiet road,
Past the barns and fence posts,
The sun warm upon your face,
The wind laughing in your hair
Through an open window?
Would you gaze upon the mighty golden oak,
The maples red and brown,
And count the homeless leaves
Gently drifting down,
And think:
Am I destined,
To linger in the autumn air,
To ponder life I thought so fair,
To know the waste of a summer’s crop
Of youth and love and innocent thought?
Would you place a candle on a windowsill,
And lay between two warm sheets,
And close your eyes,
And whisper,
“Remember me.”
About the Creator
James D. Greer
Hi! I am a published writer, singer-songwriter, and U.S. Army veteran of 15 years. I have traveled the world, experienced multiple cultures and communities, and am inspired by human nature and all we have to offer to each other!
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No Handshake - No Art
I grew up in the backwoods of Kentucky, where my parents, my sisters, and I lived a homestead life of homegrown food and hard work. One of my fondest memories was helping my parents pack Tupperware boxes full of items they created by hand without the aid of machines or electricity, and heading to the fairs. My parents were artisans – people who worked with their hands and imagination, creating works of art that brought joy for many people. They were part of a community that greeted each other on early Saturday mornings at arts and crafts fairs, carnivals, farmers markets, and the little shop venues on small-town main streets or outside the bustling of urban sprawls. We would unload those boxes full of handcrafted works of art, setting them delicately on folding tables, and waited, hoping passersby would catch sight of one or two items they found wonderful. There were many times when events would provide little money; yet, we would venture back to make more works of art and hope for the best another time, making the best of what we had and being grateful. I would watch my dad, Craig, bend over his workbench late at night with carving tools and bitten lip, giving everything into his craft and creating works of instrumental wonder that people became so fond of.
By James D. Greer4 years ago in Journal
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