GRANDMAS STITCHING MOONBEAMS:

Mama, where do all the Grandmas go, when they have to die?

My child, they all go to a far better place, high above the sky,

Mama, tell me, what do they all do there, with their daily time?

My child, they all sew, spin, sing, tell yarns & write fair rhymes.

 

Grandmas sit in heaven stitching, Luna´s satin silky moonbeams,

To scatter gently from night skies, in soft, silken milky streams,

They sew stars upon the ceilings too, of the dark & velvet nights,

So that all foraging little animals, will never be without their lights.

 

Grandmas weave their magic spells, of spangles, bright & shining,

So that all of us on earth, will stop our mourning & sad whining,

They paint all days in gold-dust & wash skies in periwinkle blue,

And my dear child, they do it, simply to always remember you.

 

Grandmas toss peridots, upon wild-wide oceans & olivine seas,

And they warm up the golden sun, so that winter ends its freeze,

They strew flowers upon fields & sprinkle rain to make them grow,

And upon high mountain-tops, they whistle for cool winds to blow.

 

Grandmas breathe pretty perfumes, upon the fragrant scented air,

In bergamot, rose & lilacs, to dance merrily, within your baby hair,

And when you smell the rinds of lemons, of oranges & sweet limes,

You´ll know that grandmas are near & you´ll remember happy times.

 

Grandmas knit rays of sunshine & sew those milky beams of moons,

And within the songs of nightingales, you´ll hear their happy tunes,

Remember child, whenever you see moonbeams & hear a happy song,

You will know that your grandmas are near, & have never really gone.