Word Picture May 17th, 2015

Like the swirling apple blossoms petals,
Landing on my head and hands and heart,
Snippets of songs, stories, puppets, poems,
Warm hugs, magic tricks, and cinnamon smells
Dance around my tiny self.
Some are but a sweet caress.
Some cement to my soul.

Surrounded by my parents and mother's parents,
Four pillars of constant affirmation and support,
I take my first steps,
Tell my first stories,
Draw my first pictures,
Bake my first cookies.

Now, almost in my own old age,
I have travelled back to the birth places
Of my grandparents.
The blossoms are once again swirling.
New stories awaken old stories.
Long dead grandparents continue to nurture.
Every seagull is still a Herman or a Gertrude.