The cool autumn wind blows
as the golden oak leaves fall
beyond the cracked and broken wall.
The hot winds of summer are gone.
The early morning bell at old Smith-Cotton gongs.
The covered bridge over flat creek still stands,
passerby’s marvel and clap their hands.
Children scamper and frolic in the fresh autumn air,
awaiting the first day of the county fair.
The pumpkin lay golden, ready and ripe.
The corn stalks are stacked neat and tight.
Things seemed to move slower and people took their time.
Life made sense and possessed rhythm and rhyme.
The roses were big and red on the bush that
climbed on the garden gate.
Life was simple and just great in the
Autumn of Nineteen Forty Eight.