Generations blur, Eleanor’s blond hair
Dimpled cheek, twisty skirts belonged 
To another. Was it really forty years ago? 

Three generations sat adoring the fourth,
Similarity wafted over each to wrap them
In a cord of blood and years, hopes and fears. 

Confused I watch, searching for a feature, or word
Or sign that points to the one who is my peer. 
Do I fit with any of the four in front of me?

Did I teach grandmother, mother, child, grandchild? 
Ah yes, now I see, it is the gray hair, faint lines,
Slight tremor and graveled voice that finally places me. 

A blended eighty years fools me most days, but now 
Not lost in the blur, the years roll away. Freed, I see 
Youngest to oldest capture a past that tells all
Generations  from then to now, we are really one.