Because you’ve died, a candle burns
upon your wooden window sill.
Oh, Gram, you loved to watch us play,
and I just know you’re watching still.

In spring you spied on robins’ nests
to see if babes had taken flight.
You loved a summer thunderstorm,
that smell if lightning sizzled bright.

And you adored an autumn tree,
its leaves piled high on dark green grass,
the smooth white snow that clad your yard,
those icicles that gleam like glass.

Oh, Gram, your heart was filled with love
for all of us, but did you know
I loved you more than I can say?
Is it too late to tell you so?