A grandfather's heart is always
under construction.
With plans that are never
complete.

A grandfather's mind continues
searching for the excitement
for which he's always
willing to share.

A grandfather lives in denial when
it comes to his grandchildren
having to leave and go away.

A grandfather is keen with a mind
that's sharp and knowledgeable.

A grandfather is warm with his
thoughts and his loving hands.

A grandfather is a bundle of joy
like candy on a Christmas day.

A grandfather is a spiritual leader
whether he wants to be
or not.

A grandfather is a mountain
of gold.

A grandfather touches the hearts
of many because he himself
has a very good
old soul.

time has a scent
that's quite different
from bitter lemon zest
to cool peppermint

like that of sidewalk chalk
heavy rains keep washing off
time comes in many colors
beyond that on the box

sampling a taste
pouring out in waves
time is a surgeon
set to operate

is a makeshift shelf
where life's books are held
to one day be read
by somebody else

time is all of these
among many other things
but most of all
time is the cruelest of thieves

Dawn
light just seeping
through slatted blinds
robins begin
their morning song
at full-blast volume
I am awake, listening

hoping you made it
through the wilderness
and are sitting on the deck
with your morning coffee
listening to robins too
or loons calling on the lake
watching the sun rise

you said you wanted
to be lying naked
next to the woman
you love
when you're ninety
I hope to be the one
in your arms

perhaps completely deaf
to the robin's cacophony
and a little
worse for wear
but still loving
each other
just the same.

Every song you ever said was about me
I play on repeat
Singing along to all the words that hopefully still mean something
Titles and tracks that shuffle on a loop
Somehow constantly reminding me of you
And I can't seem to forget the words you wrote too
But what means the most
Is something only you can do
When you sing to me
And I can feel that every word is true

On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.