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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