Drowsy little tot embedded in grandpa's lap,
snug as a baby sea horse lodged in her daddy's pouch.
Rocking back and forth like a pendulum in an eight day clock,
lulled to sleep by his singing a treasured lullaby.
Vibrating tones emanated from his barrel-chested body:
Ofyn pripetshik brent a fayerl ( a flame burns in the fireplace)
Un in shtub iz heys ( and the room warms up)
Absorbed by her brilliant presence:
Miniature tiny red lips not yet tainted by lipstick,
could be mistaken for an antique French doll.
Her rose petal skin is translucent,
alive with energy pouring out of every pore,
skin so soft he thinks of the milkweed floss he held
in his hands on an autumn day when the sky was crimson gold.
Tears roll down the bristly cheeks,
overwhelmed by the adoration of the moment
and the epiphany that he might not even be remembered
by this child with whom he was so enraptured.