Warmth can be a cozy, comfy chair,
Upon which thrown, a hand-knit afghan quilt,
Awaiting little boys who tumble in, and there
fake-wrestle for first dibs; no signs of guilt.

A grandson hiding in the fort he built
with tablecloths and sheets from grandma’s chest,
And help from brother (older, wiser), skilled
in art of structures, and a buddy best.

Pensive, joy and wonder ‘neath my breast,
I watch my children’s children (five) all sons,
With bluster, joy and vigor unsuppressed,
Whose mischief times are pups and cookie crumbs.

With love, I knit team caps to warm their ears,
They clutter-fill my days with happy tears.




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