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 upon your beauty.
you were like a mighty tree.
Your hair was gray, but to me
It shone with the hue of fall leaves in color—
as they reflect the blossom of maturity.
How often I saw your love descend like falling leaves
into gentle piles.
I laughed at the children
as they leapt into your arms,
nestled in your keep.
Then cruel time took you to task—
you shed leaves no more.
Your branches now still.
We called the funeral home
and like skilled woodsmen—
they laid you to your rest.
We called upon a craftsman—
to weave words reflecting the splendor of your wood—
You were the noblest of trees and bore the rarest grain,
shaped by stage and storm.
He crafted your acclaim—
lent brilliance to the grain—
ever mindful of your aim—
giving glory to your name.
