Black grandma & White grandma

Spectacles and wrinkles; 
grandma brown as good soil.
While my mum's skin is more akin to yellowish pear.

My daughter’s not so flowery, she tells it how she sees:
black grandma and white grandma she calls accordingly.

Simple how she thinks,
my kid reductionist,
speaks to my delight,
cutting to the heart of things.

I hope she won't forget
the feeling: young and free
silently erodes with age and shrinks in memory.

We are drawn to their innocence;
oblivious to deference, they dance unencumbered, 

abuzz with energy.

With little care she follows bliss equipped with crafty grin;
between her thumb and finger she will twirl a rascal's pin.

With the sincerity's simplicity
a question is posed;
pop goes the bubble of a gassed ego.

The wisdom of a whipper snapper
may crack the shell of pretense - a shame they lose their edge.

Her lense has lost sharpness, 

correctness drilled in.
As she passes through the system, spirit dimmers by the second.

Youth is wasted on the young,
elders envy dismayed.
Abundant opportunity is blown and thrown away.

Let her live in the moment
as long as life permits. 
Everyday the timer ticks,
her temperament cools.

One day I'll lift her up,
no doubt with absent mind; how will I know when it will be the last time...

A sage spoke of three types,
the rest are disingenuous; romantic, religious and then love for a child.

Careful you love too much;
love's beholden to the past.
They grow so damn fast...

heart aches when she is gone.