Poem for Emily

Small fact and fingers and
farthest one from me,
A hand's width and two
generations away,
In this still present I am
fifty-eight.
You are not yet six months.

When I am sixty-eight,
when you are ten,
and you are neither closer
nor as far,
your arms will fill with what
you know by then, the
arithmetic and love we do
and are.

When I by blood and luck
am eighty-six
and you are some place
else and twenty-eight;
Believing in sex and god
and politics
with children who look not
at all like me,

Some time I know you will
have read them this
so they will know I love
them and say so
and love their mother.

Child, whatever is
is always or never was.


Long ago,
a day I watched a while
beside your bed,
I wrote this down, a thing
that might be kept
a while, to tell you what I
would have said
when you were who knows
what and I was dead.
Which is, I stood and loved
you while you slept.

*******

Poem by Miller Williams
Poet Laureate

Found by accident.
Numerical ages changed slightly
by actual grandfather.

Emily, 1st Christmas, 5 mo. old.

Emily, 3rd Christmas, 2 1/2 years old. Sister, Mary E. Payer is at the lower right.

Olivia and Emily: Olivia is 1 1/2 years old, Emily, 2 1/2

More Pictures of the GrandKids

Index to all pictures

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Poem for Olivia

Wee 'Livia Payer
Runs through the town, Upstairs and downstairs
In her night-gown,
Tapping at the window, Crying through the lock,
"Are the babies in their beds, For it's now nine o'clock?"

"Hey! 'Livia Payer,
Are you coming then?
The cat's singing purry
To the sleeping hen;
The dog is lying on the floor
And does not even peep
But here's a wakeful lassie Who will not fall asleep.

"Anything but sleep, you rogue!
Glowering like the moon; Rattling in an iron jug
With an iron spoon; Rumbling, tumbling all about, Crowing like a cock, Screaming like I don't know what,
Waking sleeping folk.

"Hey! 'Livia Payer,
Can't you keep her still? Wriggling off a body's knee
Like a very eel;
Pulling at the cat's ear,
As she drowsy hums
- Hey, 'Livia Payer!
See! - there she comes!"

Wearied is mother Tracy
That has a restless wean,
A wee, stumpy baby,
Heard whene'er she's seen - That has a battle aye with sleep
Before she'll close an eye; But a kiss from off her rosy lips
Gives strength anew to me.

*******