Butterfly

A poem dedicated to my grandparents who mean so much to me.

 My tiny feeble hand reaches up for theirs,

wrapped up in warmth and affection.

I'm at home.

Growing up,

challenges sometimes knocked them

out of place.

But even a new-born butterfly knows the way home.

My tiny feeble hand came back.

This time bigger. 

With each year, their hands changed.

Youth slipped away and age filled up the space.

Warmth and affection still stayed.

Years down the line, 

their feeble hands reach for mine.

Wrapped up in my warmth and affection.

They're at home.