The dream fogs forward.
We’re weeks away
from grand baby to be,
plums barely clinging to the branch.
The ocean, a little further than
the next door rooster, breaks on the beach
morning after morning, anticipating footsteps
as our family strolls.
The math of compassion adding up,
the little ones make us larger.
Passing down humor, songs,
and curls, decades away from going grey.
God has no grandchildren, the one thing
we can pity. The smallest finger
He’ll ever feel in His hand
is ours.
