A Word She Knows

At bedtime your names, spoken, act on her
Like a two-toned bell on Pavlov's dog.
She waves a small hand,
Secure in the fact
She knows best,
And her lips twist
To form a soft 'bye,' which she repeats
A score of times, while my heart
Beats an involuntary echo, before
She sinks into the nest I built
Of blankets for her rest.

For Grampa V.

Before I knew names,
Colors caught my eye.

The trees were bare
But you wore fall with charm--
Gold, brown, and plum
For her russet and deep green. 

Camera heavy on your neck, with a small smile
And crinkled eyes, you shuffled down the aisle.

Though strangers, you sought us
To give comfort for loss,
Not judgement of grief,
On a day confused by wounds and joy.

Eleven months later in hospital light,
I heard the grievous news
That when our little one flew
Earth for heaven, you did, too.

Your wife and you together
Taught that small words have weight, 
Comfort comes quietly in a corner, 
And it takes just one meeting
To miss a great man.

And when I think of our baby, I see
Gold, brown, and plum
With russet and deep green.