Anne's Ale

 

Anne’s Ale

     No sugar added.  Harvested just yesterday.  Granddaughters helped pick the clusters.  Some went in their mouths.  Correction, a lot went in their mouths.

     It was a make a memory event.  Mom with youngen’s helped Grandma pull in the produce.  From vine to bowl, they serviced.  In the kitchen was another story.  With the stove too hot, little fingers met the boundary.  The juicer worked the magic and yielded forty-two pints of sweet gold.  Down in the pantry they will have their stay being nestle with other jars of love.  Pickles, peaches, pears, and more.  Anne’s busy hands promise our stock be sure.

     How fortunate I am to have a wife who is a homemaker!  She surrounds me with comforts and makes me want to rest here.  A dripping facet she is not.  Quietness surrounds her as she works her ministries.

     This home eases souls.  Coming in we unravel from this world’s upbraiding chide.  Stayers do not meet criticism here as comfort in reassurance calms countenances.

     Anne’s ale flows through our abode in a metaphor.  What she has purposely sealed in jars now openly courses and welcomes us in.

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