Visit to Grandma's
She listens for footsteps. . .at last they've arrived!
Through ripples of laughter, each one gets a hug,
fresh cookies are ready: the little ones squeal,
and disarrayed bundles spill onto the rug.
Their warm recollections and up-to-date news
are shared in a flurry, the house is aglow.
Then, "Grandma, a story?" The tucking-in joys
bring tender reminders of years long ago.
The moments spin by and she's caught in the whirl;
but time's now an enemy, schedules are tight.
Too soon they are leaving, as kisses are blown,
surrounding the car till it fades from her sight.
She closes the door, slowly breathing the scents
of cookies and giggles that cling to the walls.
Then hollowness enters on little stone feet.
The armchair is waiting. The first teardrop falls.
The Harvest of their Years
The richness of their vintage years still glows,
and holds his loneliness at bay. Today,
he tends his rows of mellow memories,
content to savor moments plucked by time
that linger, filled with flavor, in his mind.
He feels her presence near -- her touch as light
and soft as apple blossoms floating down
to rest upon his palm. He smiles at how
her nuances of thought would shift; her look
of impish resignation when she'd murmur
"Yes dear," and his eyes would twinkle back.
He doesn't worry now, about the state
of world affairs, or whether rain will fall
tomorrow. Wrapped in contemplation of
the seasons of their love, he waits his call...
rejoicing in the harvest of their years.
© Laryalee Fraser
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