Dear Granny's voice held flute-tones bright as dawn,
"Call not the spider's weaving gray, my child,
But a shining silver web an artist styled.
Come, you must put my star-rimmed glasses on
To see a crocus thrusting through the clod;
A lilac blossom with an April breeze
Light-dancing a ballet; view emerald seas
Of meadows daisy-crested, not mere sod."
A silver web of beauty! Granny's art
I came to understand. As years sped swift
The common place illumed when I would lift
My eyes and see with vision of the heart.
To Granny's garden walled by crumbling stone
I have returned, and through nostalgic tears
I view the silver web spun by the years
For I have star-rimmed glasses of my own.