Laura looked in the button box once held by her grandmother's hands
looking there for her as only grandchildren can;
and, hearing the echoes of every ivory, tin and plastic piece
gesture from the past as part of the love from family avenues;
Feeling the grooves of every buttonhole, every ridge and crease
passing on the tales, asking to be part of something new.
Every button a riddle, the thread and buttonhole an answer
every mystery waiting to be sown or unraveled
every song willing to be passed
only waiting for the time to speak.
Laura looked in the button box once held in her grandmother's hands;
hearing the harmony and smelling the buttercup mist of song's memory
hearing her grandmother
as only grandchildren can.