Grandma’s Hands

Legacy is a word the great and powerful guard jealously.

They hold it fast around them

like a blanket,

tight against the cold.

Fragile hands

clawing desperately to build

something from dead stone and blood soaked earth

that will last

longer than them.

But you?

Legacy is a word you give freely, hands open, expecting nothing in return.

Yours is a love that quietly thunders

echoing down through the generations.

What do you leave behind? To what shall I compare it?

A small seed planted

that grows into a great tree

a home for the birds;

a place to sing

and to rest.