From my father, his cradle,
made a hundred years ago.
My mother gave me
an eye for snowflakes.
My grandmothers took me
in their lap
and sang old chants and nursery rhymes.
From my grandfather,
who I never met, I learned to love literature.
My second grandfather
taught me to cycle, and he gave me a pocket knife.
They all taught me to take care of
memories.
What is this all about?
Its life, isn’t it?
(In response to Linda Hogan’s “Heritage”.)
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2 comments:
I liked the line about your grandfather. It made me wonder why and how that came about. Phoebe
Very good, and easy to read.
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