Daphne guards me while I play.
She’s protective by nature,
It’s just her way.
So here she sits,
And scouts things out,
As I look around and crawl about.
Yep, there’s potato on my face!
That was lunch today.
I started to eat with a spoon,
But it really just got in the way.
So, it’s best to grab a big handful,
Of a white, fluffy, mashed tater,
Sit back, and let Mommy clean up later!
Her spiral curls
And her wide smile
Reaching her eyes,
Not to love this
Girl more every day.
Mommy says Great-Grandpa was a talker—
With lots and lots to say.
And that the world may never hear another,
Who can talk the Norman way.
Mommy says he must have had a racing mind,
One that seldom settled down,
‘Cause he could talk about anything,
To anyone around.
Mommy says he was known in the town,
As one who liked to chat,
And in a place as quiet as Willow Hill,
Most folks could appreciate that.
Mommy says that his chatty style is missed,
That the world is changing fast,
And that the art of conversation,
May soon be something of the past.
A staring contest, you say?
Is that the game you want to play–
A battle of wills,
Of our non-blinking skills?
I’ll give it a try, but in truth,
There’s just too much else to see and do,
To waste too much time just staring at you.
A walk with Oliver at Falls Road;
It’s his favorite place to play.
“He came here as a pup,”
My parents like to say.
You should see him when he runs around–
Up hills and through the muddy ground.
You should watch him jump into the creek,
And come out shaking–making Mommy shriek!
But we all know when to go,
When it’s time to call it a day;
It’s when, from head to paw–he’s a messy shade of gray!