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.
Comment: Ummm...I can almost smell the honeysuckle! Your poem makes me
homesick for the South. How truly enjoyable it is to leave the TV and
computer off for awhile and take an after dinner walk through a "spring
scented" neighborhood or park.
