The Seasons: A Poem

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Sunrise over Amazing Grasses Family Farm The mad Artist wields His brush, Painted colors rush, To life and give flush, Before the quiet autumn hush. The life seems to pour, As colors fall to the floor, To be seen no more, Outside the dark, grey door. Brightness from below, Sun upon the snow, High, cold clouds blow, Flakes and ice appear to grow. The man melts with little seen, Underneath, pale, grey green, Hides life in dark unseen, Waits for warmth and to careen. Buds on branches show, Patience starts to grow, Trickles, streams and veins flow, Bringing fruits of melted snow. Sprung to life it springs, Bees, birds, sound rings, Lush green flings, Its gift bounty brings. Green growth gives one last rush, Underneath the Painter's brush. The mad Artist wields His brush, before the quiet autumn hush. More poetry is available from James M. Hahn in  The Last Dragon and Other Poems  available now. My new book of cryptogram puzzles " Secret Messages from the Saints " is avai
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Grandpa Jake's Wildflower Mead

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I have inherited about 80-100 lbs of wildflower honey from my grandfather who died this past fall. Grandpa Jake did things a little different so you'll notice that the honey looks more like molasses. It has a very strong honey flavor but most of the family doesn't care for it for everyday use. So, I've decided to attempt to make a Mead (honey wine) with it. It is now fermenting away upstairs. Hopefully it will turn out to be a one-of-a-kind, much like Grandpa Jake!


I stirred the must (honey water) for about 15 mins hoping to give those little yeast animals plenty of oxygen to help them do what they do best.

Hydrating yeast, anxious to be dumped into that sugary bucket.

Wheeeeeee! Here we go!

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