Grandmother,
in the blister of the sun,
like branches, I was shaded by your presence.
Underneath your boughs
I sheltered from the rain.
With your wisdom I kindled fires.
In the twilight of your season
I gazed at your beauty.
you were like a mighty tree.
Your hair was gray, but to me
It shone with the hue of leaves in color—
as they reflect their maturity.
How often I saw your love descend like falling leaves —
gentle, piles of leaves.
I laughed at the children—
as they leapt into your arms—
to be nestled in your keep.
Then cruel time took you to task—
you shed leaves no more.
Your branches still—
they called upon a woodsman—
to lay you to your rest.
They called upon a craftsman—
to make splendor of your wood—
the noblest of the trees bare the rarest grain—
shaped by stage and storm.
He crafted your acclaim—
lending brilliance to the grain—
ever mindful of your aim—
giving glory to your name.
