My daughter’s boy is almost tall as I,
And swirling thoughts within his tousled head
are spinning, myriad mind maps that belie
the silent calm facade we see, instead.
Snips and snails and caterpillar threads
No longer fill the visions he ascribes to,
He leans his fishing pole at foot of bed,
Impatient, waits for season to ensue.
His high school days will be upon him soon,
And yesterday’s small pond he’ll leave behind,
In bigger pond, a small fish he will be,
I know more grown-up interests he will find.
I’m wistful, but resigned, life’s ebb and flow,
For Grandma and her hugs he’ll ne’er outgrow.