Community Magazine

My Grandma

By Gran13

Her snow-white hair was piled up high

Yesterday’s dreams shone in her eyes.

As she made her memories flow

We sat enthralled, so keen to know

Of life when she was young

And onto every golden word we hung.

Why do children seek to hear

Of grandma’s wisdom down the years

When mother’s words though just as wise

They often fail to recognize?


Or so it seemed in childhood days

When grandma was a shining ray

Of information so profound

She held us, her audience, spellbound.


Grandmas are so young today

With lovely hair that’s seldom gray.

But, they still have a special place

In children’s quest for the knowledge race

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