(grandmother   )

All through the first chill days
Of Spring and in the lengthened
Light of summer, the young girl
Sat, a dream in smoke-gray eyes,
Her dark head bent over needle
Above the faint design she wove
In sheerest lawn; her small hands
Quick to form the tiny stitches she
Fashioned in christening robes
For her first born child.
 
“When comes September no royal
Babe shall have such a dress as mine,” 
She said. Her needle true while the dream
Of babe pushed the thread and cloth. 
Her dress, threads of love held finery.

A half a century later as summer spent
Their days of sun: Bertha lay in tranquil
Sleep beneath ancient pines, other hands
Seek out the robes. A tiny Kathleen to be
Born again shall wear the fragile lace.

A gift from yesterday of love and grace.