By Roseann Zimmerman
Correspondent 

Old Order Mennonite Memoirs

 

My father was one to

stand at night

And look up at the sky

At springtime moons and blue starlight

And clouds that drifted by.

He seemed to drink the

fragrant air

In natural, keen delight.

One with the breeze that stirred his hair,

He'd murmur, "Some nice night!"

My father was one to

love the heat

Of any summer day;

The clover field to

him was sweet;

He mowed it all away.

With shirt stuck to his

back and wet,

Upon the hay he'd climb

And pause to mop his

face and say,

"Ah, good old summertime."

My father was one who liked to live,

Who savored simple things.

He reached out, not to take,...



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