To be a good grandma, who me?
What do I see?
Through rose-hued glasses
or molasses?
For when the kids are very small
to them, I’m tall,
I’m lots of fun;
but comes, I’m done.
Like a giraffe, I must stretch my neck,
for little peck,
gain perspective,
retrospective.
I’m wandering
and pondering,
what did I give
great-progeny to help them live,
be wise, feel loved;
of God beloved?
Fall in each arm;
hope...
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