Sprawled on grandma’s bed
across the quilt her grandmother made,
the little girls nap after an August lunch.
Cheeks flushed, eyelashes shadowy
as spider threads on silk,
their thumbs creep to rosy lips
pursed, already sucking.
The angels-unaware haven’t yet learned
they are the fifth generation to race
screaming with joy in this back yard
crammed with roses and apple trees and spearmint.
After their naps they play
on the flagstone patio
under conversation of uncles and aunts.
They will only realize when much older
that the grandma who makes up
silly stories and sings in her funny
cracked voice played on these same
garden paths while visiting her grandmother.
The grown-ups, sipping cold drinks
and mopping up little-finger spills,
watch time speed in the sturdy bodies
of the babies.

This poem first appeared in Song of the San Joaquin (2009).
Used here with the author’s permission.