Full moon’s high in my window pane,
a sleepless night yet again.
I think of what that old moon’s seen,
and the billions of days in-between.
Billions of stories it could share.
But few like grandma’s can compare.
Her life began long, long ago.
Raised in places few ever know.
In forests, jungles and never-ending plains,
there were exotic cities and quiet country lanes.
Naturalist nurtured traversing the globe,
her parents explorers and professors in robes.
She too attended their university,
majoring, of course, in anthropology.
She graduated at the very top of her class.
Then returning to a high mountain pass.
A place where dear friends made, one nevermore,
new will be made though not as before.
For the sisterly love they both did share,
her dowry passed from generations with care.
Their rug was presented for the mutual esteem,
more cherished than a simple weaving would seem.
With sheep twists dyed and hands knotting all day,
life’s artful history’s made to give, barter or pray.
That winter spent mourning by choice and terrain.
Gram then ventured east with the new spring rain.
Her path soon ended on a long Pacific beach,
her life of the past now far out of reach.
She then called upon as never before.
She volunteered proudly as a nurse in the war.
Through years of blood, pain and tears she served,
refusing all the medals and honors deserved.
Though her true love was found slumped on a cot,
they soon returned home, where time was forgot.
Gramps got better and a new family sown.
their many shared scars were never to be shown.
Her old rug was placed by hearth and chest,
each full of stories though not all are best.
It’s a place we’d sit to hear grandma recall,
sometimes a place to do nothing at all.
So I tip-toed downstairs since sleep no option,
I’ll rest on that rug where dreams are begun.
It’s where secrets are shared and magic seen,
then a place for relaxing time in-between.
Once sewn as a bag keeping safe, precious things.
It’s been many a blanket with a picnic to bring.
It’s been a shawl in the cold and hood in the rain –
and a comfy pillow on the overnight train.
Adventures had in time that’s flown,
together worn from long years grown.
This rug’s grandma’s confidant and oldest friend,
soaring together their wove lives transcend.
Though colors now faded, ends torn and frayed,
beauty more timeless cannot be remade.
And when the winds do bellow just right,
we’re drawn up the flue and into the night.
Holding fast and climbing high,
we touched the stars in our moonlit sky.
We’d see twinkling lights in our town below,
then off to the hills where roads don’t go.
Over the wood, back to the place we all live,
where the door’s always open and love’s to give.
There blissful slumbers had snug as a bug,
whilst wrapped with a hug in grandmas old rug.