To My Granny's Picture

Dear little Granny, let me take your hand
And thank you for the gift you gave to me--
That you could send your babies to this land
And yet remain yourself across the sea
For two long years before you also came.
There is a look of sadness in your eyes
And poignant loneliness too deep to name,
Yet back of this--I marvel in surprise--
I see a glorious faith, calm and serene,
A look of reverent courage and of peace
That you had sent them here to fields all green
And fertile with God's righteous, rich increase.
Your children's children honor you ... They stand
Holding your torch of faith in this choice land.

Granny's Rosy Glasses

Dear little granny with her charming way!

How very often have I heard her say

About some person I had frowned upon,

"My darling, put your rosy glasses on."

Old Coverlet

Made of far more than squares of calico,
This cherished coverlet, for Granny's fingers
Stitched in the faith that prompted men to go
To blossom barren sands. In each block lingers
The story she would tell me when a child--
Dear wise-tongued Granny! I heard graves' still-calling
Along the prairie; ghosts of wolf-cries, wild,
Slow-muted by the streams from mountains falling
Upon a fruited valley ... On the way
I saw Gran's sunburnt smiles, her tears ... In sorrow
Holding to the frayed hem of yesterday,
She reached to touch the new robe of tomorrow.
Not calico, but Granny's starward eyes--
What joy and grief and dreams each block encloses!
Loved murmur of desert lullabies,
She lived to see the wasteland bright with roses.

And Saw the Vision

For bedtime stories Granny always told
Adventures that would wonder-fill our eyes:
We heard the covered wagons as they rolled
Across the startled prairies, desert skies
Burning the sand. We knew the gnawing thirst
Parched throats endured. We stood beside a mound,
A little grave, and felt our hearts would burst
Lest hungry wolves disturb the hallowed ground.
Our feet kept time as violins sang out
The music for quadrilles and young folks danced
Within the wagon circle. We heard the shout
Which told the trek was done, then stood entranced
With Granny as she viewed the sage-bound loam
And saw the vision of her valley home.

Silver Web

Dear Granny's voice held flute-tones bright as dawn,
"Call not the spider's weaving gray, my child,
But a shining silver web an artist styled.
Come, you must put my star-rimmed glasses on

To see a crocus thrusting through the clod;
A lilac blossom with an April breeze
Light-dancing a ballet; view emerald seas
Of meadows daisy-crested, not mere sod."

A silver web of beauty! Granny's art
I came to understand. As years sped swift
The common place illumed when I would lift
My eyes and see with vision of the heart.

To Granny's garden walled by crumbling stone
I have returned, and through nostalgic tears
I view the silver web spun by the years
For I have star-rimmed glasses of my own.