There is often a mist of poetry to be found within common prose, a phrase that sings a melody, a line that beats with the rhythm of a metered verse, or a passage that somehow transcends its purpose and breaks the bonds of ordinary composition. Unintended though it may have been, somehow thoughts that lie within the heart and soul burst forth with such beauty that it takes your breath away.

Early in the year 1985 I found myself reading miscellaneous notes written by my mother. They were mostly thoughts and ideas that she had saved for a purpose yet to be determined and that now would never find the light of day for we had lost our parents on January 16^th, 1985 in a terrible accident. As I perused the scraps of paper lying on her desk I came upon one sheet that appeared to be more than a momentary thought, more complete than most of the notes that I had found and it spoke to me of a love that cannot be measured and of a love that has become far too rare these days.

The hills and trees were fantastic. Everyone seemed to agree it was one of the most beautiful autumns ever. I wish I could put the color of the trees to paper. In that respect, the painter has an advantage over the writer. Still, I doubt if any painter ever put such color to canvas as the woods have displayed this year.

But even as the colors have faded, day by day, Nature’s other beauties take over. Most of the brilliant leaves are gone. The oak’s brown hangs on, like an old bag lady of the forest’s streets. The goldenrod has turned a fragile gray, each delicate clump hanging on a leafless stem. It snowed last Sunday, and every weed became a jewel, every tree a miracle.

The cedar below the yard was capped with snow, and its companion, a hickory, thrust its snow-tipped naked branches into a wintry sky. Someone suggested we should cut the cedar. Oh, no! The two of them seem bound together, supporting each other. During the summer and fall, the hickory stands out, first green with youth and then golden as the year ages, but in winter, the cedar, which has seemed unimportant all year, comes into its own. It gives us the green of hope all year. It promises that, come spring, those bare lined trees now unable to hide their nakedness, will again be clothed in splendor.

I keep harkening back to the beauty of the leaves this fall. Walking down the road, I felt like I was in a child’s paint box, with the colors splashing all around me. Even the oaks, which usually turn a deadly dull brown, this year, were a velvet burgundy, and every hill was aflame with red and gold.

Life is so peaceful here.

Nellie Ann Lanham

The hickory and the cedar still stand tall outside the windows of our parent’s country home. They keep silent watch over those who come to visit and remember. Three generations still come to stand silently and hear their voices whisper “I love you” as they have always done. They are bound together, supporting each other, loving each other for now and forever.