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sarah-spencerPoems
Soft scuffling of grandpas boots on the wet dirt As he kicks a rock down the path A soft sigh escapes his lips And the rock falls into a small mud bath The sun slowly rising The new warmth spread across my face As i close my eyes I hear grandpa soothing voice we’ll be there soon he says I open my eyes to The dew covering the fresh cut green grass In the wide open field The daffodils and tulips ready to bloom Forming a shield around the new stone That has been placed in the middle The place grandma always loved Her favorite spot for lunch We’d share the pies she’d baked And grandpas ham sandwiches My nose filled with the smell of fresh soil Grandpa pulls me in my little red wagon Down the small hill Its squeaky wheels and long black handle A handful of daisies And me in my white sandals Grandpa pulls up to the stone And a soft tears escapes his eyes down his wrinkled cheeks As he pulls a single **** that had grown I squeeze his firm hand The tears fade And a smile appears As he kisses my head And looks up to the sky Sometimes, You can smell grandmas perfume And pies in the field She sits and waits As grandpa returns Day after day For lunch.
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Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Lunch
Soft scuffling of grandpas boots on the wet dirt As he kicks a rock down the path A soft sigh escapes his lips And the rock falls into a small mud bath The sun slowly rising The new warmth spread across my face As i close my eyes I hear grandpa soothing voice we’ll be there soon he says I open my eyes to The dew covering the fresh cut green grass In the wide open field The daffodils and tulips ready to bloom Forming a shield around the new stone That has been placed in the middle The place grandma always loved Her favorite spot for lunch We’d share the pies she’d baked And grandpas ham sandwiches My nose filled with the smell of fresh soil Grandpa pulls me in my little red wagon Down the small hill Its squeaky wheels and long black handle A handful of daisies And me in my white sandals Grandpa pulls up to the stone And a soft tears escapes his eyes down his wrinkled cheeks As he pulls a single **** that had grown I squeeze his firm hand The tears fade And a smile appears As he kisses my head And looks up to the sky Sometimes, You can smell grandmas perfume And pies in the field She sits and waits As grandpa returns Day after day For lunch.
A poem about a grandfather taking his granddaughter to visit grandmas grave for lunch.
Written by
sarah-spencer
American
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
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