Poems My Grandmother Taught Me

Her Father’s Child

She was just a little tyke,
Six or seven, I guess
The kind you often see
With too old, too long a dress.

Her hair was straight, the color
of too hot, too dry sand.
Her walk was the walk of a soldier,
Her hand in her father’s hand.

Her eyes so clear, so beautiful,
The brightest star would dim;
Eyes used for both of them,
For she was leading him.

~Dana B. Nelson