In the South there is a season
When the soft, seductive scent
Of honeysuckle blossoms
Perfumes the warm night breeze.
Down my quiet city street
Beneath the overarching trees
On such a night
Some older houses catch my glance
And I find my mind is bent
To imagine moonlit scenes
From years before
When lovers chose to meet
On shadowed porches
Sheathed in honeysuckle vines.
Our grandparents didn’t have
A tenth of our technology,
But it seems quite evident
They knew a lot about romance.
