Maya, little beauty, just turned five -
her joy lights off like sparks through emerald eyes -
all mirth and shyness, from a heart of gold,
flutters to me like a monarch flies
and says in gleeful tones, "Grandpa, you're old."
And I, of course, might quickly melt away
at every word this child cares to say,
if she should babble nonsense all day through,
and so I smile at the game we play,
"Yes! In fact, I'm twice as old as you!"
"No, Grandpa, I'm small. You're way more old,"
she objected, daring to be bold;
but even so, her words dared to be sung.
I asked her as her gentle laughter rolled,
"You mean to say that all things small are young!?"
"Yep," she simply said and skipped away,
then, dancing back again, began to say,
"But not an elephant, they're always big.
Even when they're babies. And they play
around in mud sometimes, and so do pigs."
"Hey there birdie, I see what you did -
You changed the subject! What do muddy pigs
have to do with young and old," I smiled.
"Is it true that all things old are big?"
I asked, in playful tones, the beaming child.
Step in, stage left, my own sweet little girl,
her mother, Mary Lee, my very world.
I remember her in younger years,
innocent with joy, a soul unfurled,
always smiles, rarely any tears.
But now she's grown, and grownup thoughts abound
inside her pretty head, and hold her down.
Where there was happiness, now worry grows...
Her eyes find Maya monkeying around
on my old lap and poking at my nose.
"Maya, dear, you'd better come inside,"
and stop climbing on grandpa!" Mary sighed,
"He's getting old. Besides, it's time for bed."
"It isn't even dark yet," I replied,
"and I won't be too old until I'm dead."
