at grandma
her skin
dappled by the sun
like ripples
wrinkles of history
her smiles gapped
by missing ivories
that had held him
six decades and counting
the sun in strides
paints her skin yellow
tinting the white hairs golden
that crowned her pate.
grandma.

I hope it's not too late to reply to this.

I think it reads well at first, recounting the memories of his grandmother, but I lost the flow at

counting
the sun in strides.

It seems to go on to a different subject then back to the description of grandma.  I'll admit I had to look up this meaning of pate as I read it as paté.  Nice poem.