My Grandma worked miracles,
With her needle and a thread.
The treasures that she stitched,
Were created with heart and head.
She made herself a patchwork quilt,
For warmth one chilly night.
Then felt a tugging in her gut,
She really had a plight.
T'was silly to make this pretty,
To keep only for her own.
She had many grandchildren,
Why worry 'bout her bones?
She ripped the quilt in pieces,
And made a bunch of bunnies.
Handing them to us with love,
She called us all her "honeys".
Feelings overwhelmed her,
That would never, ever wilt.
The memories of our happy faces,
Kept her warmer than the quilt.