As summer leaves tumble in autumn hue,
I often find myself thinking of you.
I remember the times that you held my hand
as we barefoot walked the cool wet sand.
You never said no while you rocked in your chair,
but pulled me to your lap with a muss of my hair.
Together we'd rock and reflect on our day
then contented and thankful we both did pray.
A kiss and a tuck of your made-for-me cover
bestowed upon me a gift like no other.
So, when leaves cascade brightly from the trees made bare,
in my heart, my dear Grandma, I remember our prayer.
by James Steadman