Baby Blankets Bloom

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 makes 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.

Will SchmitComment