September is chilly mornings and classroom routines, cardigans dragged home, and the onset of colds. Grandma packs her bag with activities to distract, a soup
Pot-bellied, am I: misshapen by age and gravity – more rot than plump ripe pear – still, a vessel for love – grandmotherly vase.
I know what infinity means: it’s one hundred plus one. Voice of innocence serene her sense of self of life’s complexities. Should borrow from her,
Dreams big this budding leader, astral charts painted on her walls, thoughts always adventuring. Eight summers we’ve camped together grown our minds and spirit –
Years when children, perpetually in motion, required a referee – Mom’s energy replete so ephemeral now – time having vanished, weariness lingering, savouring memory blurs.
Child, delightful youth, my heart’s jewel, you are light-bearer, hope for the future – antics haphazard, laughter contagious, spreading joy, sparking imagination – I pray