Aw, Maisy
How do I know you
when you change so fast,
when you grow right past
the little girl you were
when last I looked?
What sort of chef cooked
this bubbling kettle,
what metal can be worked this way,
what clay can smile and joke?
What flesh and blood from mine
brings a bloom to bud,
a flower opening over mud?
Is this the part where I
compare you to a bird about to fly?
Am I too late? Can a grandfather
ever state how happy and sad
are stirred inside when
a bouncing kid begins to glide?
Grow, my dear one.
Take a hug, friend; a kiss.
You can write the end of this,
I think. You can write the end.
- Grandpa Ralph
5 comments:
How dear! Such a pretty girl. You are obviously a wonderful grandfather and certainly not too late...
Carolyn
that is so lovely.. and i am hoping you will make sure she has a copy of it,, someday she may indeed want to write the ending.... what a treasured gift......
Once again, you've captured a moment, no even more than that, an unfolding. How lucky Maisy is, to have a grandfather who is a poet. Loved visiting your site, as always when I need a good dose of poetry.
Thank you all, she's a great kid and a great inspiration. And prettier than your average granddaughter, I suppose.
How incrediably sweet. This could be made into a song.
Post a Comment