Mud Angels in Quick Time
Frost penned a poem of two tramps in mud time.
My mud angel grandbabes are growing in quick time.
Humans are mixed from mud and from stardust.
My mud angel grandbabes don't stop for clock time.
Infants hold infinity in a hollow of small hands.
Washed baby skin smells of lavender and thyme.
My mud angel grandbabes pray with each breath.
I am the one who prays for more time.
If Gramma had one wish, what would it be?
To be remebered by grandbabes through all space and time.