Lifting the basket of truth with ease
knowing it has been heavy once in
the dawn of life.
Strolling under the flowering
maple trees, I caught a glimpse
of a squire collecting a-corns
storing them away for the long
winter months.
With autumn comes a tale of
stories that were not made up
read by our grandparents so
many years ago.
Shady days bring starry nights
for remembering how lovely
living life use to be in the
olden days making memories
by the sweat of the brow
not know if they would finish
the day of work without dying
before a drink of water.
No story can be made up till
you have your own story to
tell, with its grand details
reading to those little ones
with eyes wide open filled
with excitement listening
to each word attentively.
So has each basket of truth
is unfolded, another basket
of true stories will fill it
up once again.
Lifting each basket will always
be heavy in dawn's early life, till
each true story has been told in
the fullest from generation
to generation.
