In the garden where the lilacs bloom,
Grandad’s laughter breaks the gloom.
His stories woven with threads of gold,
Echoing tales of days of old.
His hands, though worn with years of toil,
Still cradle love in tender soil.
With every seed he plants with care,
A legacy of love to share.
The twilight hours, soft and still,
Are painted with his whispered will.
He speaks of courage, hope, and grace,
With soft lines etched upon his face.
Though time may steal his youthful days,
His spirit in our hearts will stay.
For Grandad’s wisdom, gentle and bright,
Will guide us through the darkest night.