As I've been working on a nonfiction book I've named for her, my much-missed grandmother has been on my mind quite a bit lately. While taking a break from writing and editing, I made a mug of tea (how apropos) and read some poetry from a new treasure picked up from my library's semi-annual book sale. Here, Autumn Leaves by Janie Screven Heyward found in The Home Book of Modern Verse:
The dear old ladies whose cheeks are pink
In spite of the years of Winter's chill,
Are like the Autumn leaves, I think,
A little crumpled, but lovely still.