The dog at the table—
I slip a nibble.
The grandson asks, just one more time,
on guitar? I lean down: Yes, strum again.

It’s warm outside—
I fill the pets’ pond
and the tot dips his toes in,
it’s clean after all—
and I step in, too.

We twirl around in this verdant garden spot
bursting of colors and birds.
I say, Breathe in deep. What do you smell?
He does, smiles, says, Poopy poop poo,
and I laugh.

His mom, my child—
Stop encouraging him.
But it’s fun when he’s silly—
I must giggle, too.

At night, the cats rub against my calves—
I pull out some treats—
and of course, the just one more story gets two.
I hear the whispers, He knows the weak link.

Then cutie Q hugs me,
and asks for poetry.
I write it myself, he says.
About what? I inquire, 
to which he replies, About my muddy feet?

I look at his toes,
ready to sprout,
nod Of course
because Oma almost always says yes.