of us, the walk along a pine forest path,
up to the conservatory, the leaves
of willows and birch finally green,
forsythia, bright yellow,
almost a challenge
to put thoughts of winter behind,
even as our steps falter.
"I don't want to miss school," she wailed,
trying to hide her cough, her temperature.
She'd rather study Greek goddesses and
reinvent that ancient world.
They haven't taught her yet
about Persephone,
the Queen of the Underworld
who rules the turn of seasons,
the end of winter,
the beginning of spring.
When we are young,
maybe every day is spring,
the newly opened flower,
the hope for warmer days.
Only as we grow older
and sense the length of our days
do we note the coming of winter,
hold fast to memories,
and hold the young granddaughter's hand
who dreams of goddesses.
Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay
This poem, as are all of yours, is deep, WISE, and touches the heart. Especially those of us who have lived many seasons. You paint your granddaughter's youth, impetuousness, anxiety, not wanting to miss anything or take the time to be sick. We treasure those moments knowing nothing stays the same, so how we TREASURE!
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