Grandpa's dead
we get his shed.
Mom says we'll load
it in the truck.
Maple helicopter seeds
spin down gracefully
but his plane; no such luck.
The sun too goes down
while mother's brothers frown
and she leads the sorting crew.
On a tin roof I watch
while hunched adults haul
in hay field three feet tall.
Where Gramp's plane fell
dad prays he's resting well
but I think Mom thinks
he's in hell.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
Grandpa's dead
we get his shed.
Mom says we'll load
it in the truck.
Maple helicopter seeds
spin down gracefully
but his plane; no such luck.
The sun too goes down
while mother's brothers frown
and she leads the sorting crew.
On a tin roof I watch
while hunched adults haul
in hay field three feet tall.
Where Gramp's plane fell
dad prays he's resting well
but I think Mom thinks
he's in hell.
Request permission to use this poem