My grandma had a button jar, on rainy days I would empty it on the parlour floor
Most of the buttons it contained were brown or black and very plain
But some of those buttons were bright to behold, crystal and silver, glass and gold.
They came from shirts and coats all worn, Sunday dresses now tattered and torn.
Now those buttons belong to me, precious and sparkling and fancy free.
One day when she has grown my daughter may have daughters of her own.
Waiting for them up on a shelf will be a button jar they can empty themselves.
A life time of buttons belonging to me, my life in a jar for them to see.
To empty out and hold in their hands, buttons of mine, plain and grand.
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