Cherry Memories (poem by me)

Papa picked cherries from high on the tree,
We ate them on the ol’ wooden porch swing,
As we swang to and fro we sang some songs,
Then we spit cherry seeds right on the lawn.

Then the ol’ swing broke and so did his leg,
Soon after my mom moved us far away,
No longer did we sing on the porch swing,
No longer did we spit seeds on the lawn.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens…” —Ecclesiastes 3:1

 

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