Morning Song

Two generations

waddle step the dirt road

from the barn.


Egg shaped woman,

a grandmother, her hand

held tight to a child, who

walks small steps,

light and trusting

near Spring pansies,

heavy with yesterday’s rain.


History held in

her wrinkled hand

warmed in so many summers,

and his dimpled skin,

fresh like morning,

and the music between.


She sings him a song,

one that he could learn.

So on a distant morning

when he is grown and

spring sun warms


he may find himself singing.


Lorraine Walker Williams


About this Poem: As I was driving on a country road I saw this vignette and it was as if my mind photographed the two walking. I imagined her great joy in singing to the child and the closeness between in this ephemeral moment.

This poem is from my book, Paradise Found.