by Lucy M. Young
Snuggling 'neath the covers on a cold November night
While the north wind whistles frostily without,
Or listening to the raindrops pelting 'gainst the windowpane
While warm and dry beside a crackling fire;
Savoring the creamy coldness of a strawberry ice cream soda
On a hot and steamy, torrid August day;
Or a sparkling drink of water from an icy mountain spring -
These are luxuries to me beyond compare.
You can have your yachts and Cadillacs, your emeralds and champagne,
They are cold and cheerless, comfortless indeed;
And I wouldn't trade my cherished luxuries, not even one -
For all the rich possessions 'neath the sun.
Woodsmoke and Cardamom 