You came to me on an August morn,
As small as a thought, and as new as time,
And before long you crawled, then you stood and walked,
And into my lap you daily climb
Like Spanish moss on an aging tree,
With each breeze you drift and meander:
As the tree stands still with its roots in the ground,
Now gifted with something like grandeur
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Tagged: Tags Grandchildren Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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