~ Remembrance ~
And sometime when I have become
A quiet portrait on a wall,
Will you, my fair descendant,
Stop to think of me at all?
Suppose your hands are shaped like mine,
You have my “Nutmeg” sense of fun:
Will there be one to tell you so,
There, when my days are done?
If you love books, and fires, and songs,
And silvery moons in star-studded skies,
Then toss me a look of shared delight
From those, my own blue eyes;
For there is kinship in a curl,
And keepsakes in a spoken name,
And wine of life may yet be poured,
By hands, within a frame.