Poemattic: Poetry and Art for the Soul

 

Grandmother was a young girl

when an ancestor visited her.

A gentle man from her third heritage

with a wooden flute in hand

played a pleasing tune

a soothing sound

to which she gently swayed.

She asked him where he’d come from,

and how he found his way,

He said a butterfly mapped the route

and he followed the nightingale’s song

but most of all it was the love

that still lived in our home.

 

His voice faded slowly away

and he suddenly disappeared

as mysteriously as he came.

 

The sun shone through

and she awoke

and nothing was ever the same.

Grandmother always said she’d hear

the flute in the distance every now and then.

Some days she’d secretly hoped he visit her again.

 

The day she passed I heard the flute

and a songbird sing softly in my ear.

I knew then everything would be fine.

Because love is what it is

and it lives right here with me.