The Contentedness of Heart

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IN THE LATEĀ of the afternoon, I can feel it—Autumn is in the air.

As she approaches, the world speaks quietly. The air becomes crisp and new. She comes in over the hillsides, draping them in her flowing auburn hair. Her hair, as a painter’s brush, bathes the hills in warm tones. The sun smiles down upon her.

She comes to me bearing the Contentedness of Heart. A gift she knows I love. Every year the gift is the same, but my happy, subtle surprise is new with every visit.

She wraps her arms about me, and I am lost in her warm embrace. Here, my quieted heart seeks melodies that sing of yesteryear—the melodies it learned to love so long ago, I cannot fathom.

In this mood, I crave the bustle of others’ lives about me in a comfortable space. A warm drink before me and that bustle ebbs into a murmur. My muse comes to me, flows gently into words, and I capture them with a tender grasp.

Autumn is finally here, and I am happy once again.

For the works of His hands, I thank the Lord—such wonders He bestows to man!

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