Poem: Grandpa's Garden

Grandpa's Garden

In his garden
clean and neat,
my grandfather
his vigil keeps.

The faeries in
the rhubarb patch
know his gait,
and await the latch
to unlatch the gate —
for it's grandpa they await.
His smile,
his laugh,
his love-torn hands
work the soil —
soothe the land.

So when grandma
beckons him
to leave the work
and come on in,
it's with a tear
they see him go
and close the gate.

But don't you know?
Grandma thinks
them happenstance
the things that
beckon grandpa back
down his cobbled
garden path…
like unleashed vines,
misplaced rakes,
garden boulders,
fallen grapes.

For the faeries in
the rhubarb patch
know his gait
and await the latch
to unlatch the gate —
for it's grandpa
they await

Harvest time
comes and goes —
the faeries move south
with the snows.
South, right into
grandpa's home
to take-up
residence downstairs
or behind the
'clining chair…
quietly anticipating
grandpa's timely
dinner nap
when they can curl-up
on his lap —
or better yet
near his heart —
so big and soft
( until he starts
to heave and snore ).

But they don't mind:
they love grandpa
( and so do I ).

____________________

I wrote this for Grandpa, on his 80th birthday ( Halloween, 1991 )... and meant to post it on Halloween, on his 95th birthday a few weeks ago. But I completely spaced it. Good thing he doesn't know what the internet is.

:)