3rd Monday Genre: Poetry
———
I
Speak, Grandfather. Grow me roots that bind.
Show me the dirt beneath your fingernails,
I’ll trade for dust within my mind.
Grow me lasting limbs—tall, sturdy, oaked.
To you the land became gossamer thin,
To the land’s weight you were yoked.
I knew of henpecked fellows.
I knew of bucket, sled and fork.
Yes, I the roosters’ gallows,
Embraced the lusty honesty of work.
II
Speak, Old Man. Teach me of the fools.
The times you seemed be sleeping,
You spent sharpening your tools.
Today you’re gently silvered, in youth you smiled with teeth,
Now with a heart overlarge from fighting,
Work-ensnared you’ll wear it as a wreath.
I knew of brooding raptors.
I knew of pencil, rule and chalk.
Yes, I was thorn in sides of captors,
But shepherded my wayward flock.
III
Speak, Badger. Push me to accept.
Life’s a journey ever unfolding
Forgetting that is when we wept.
Push me to accept the endings without holding on to breath.
The one thing you cannot burrow away from
Is the potency of death.
I knew of feathered dinosaurs.
I knew of ponds, fences and trucks.
Yes, I was gifted building stores,
They’ll outlast the mountains, with just a bit of luck.
IV
Listen, Grandchild. Lonely keeper. Last-in-line.
Our work has sewn you promise,
Our work has reaped you time.
The day may come when no one’s left to walk behind the plow,
Until then, tend your seedlings,
They’re future, history and vow.
I knew you wouldn’t be Grandfather,
If I was not the Sun.
Perhaps together we’ve been tethered.
Perhaps it’s you I’ve been trying to outrun.
***
text © Andy Engel, 2016
