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sgholterPoems
My grandfather could barely make Out the blond boy's head Lost, if only just slightly|frightened Enough still|amidst Waves of green potatoe field. An old man's single arm held my Weight; I was that small. A strand of grass to his oak. Old ladies with veins on the outsides Of still strong hands, Who worked those same fields with Him sixty years before, Would look at me with unwitheld Bewilderment: *You look just like him when he Was your age*... How alien now, the idea: Someone Knew that old man as a child, Remembering well enough To compare us. And I still find myself there at times. Lost|but not quite|yet Worried that I am. Waiting in the potatoe field. Smaller than then, now that I've grown; Knowing that nobody's coming.
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Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Of Time, Men and Potatoes
My grandfather could barely make Out the blond boy's head Lost, if only just slightly|frightened Enough still|amidst Waves of green potatoe field. An old man's single arm held my Weight; I was that small. A strand of grass to his oak. Old ladies with veins on the outsides Of still strong hands, Who worked those same fields with Him sixty years before, Would look at me with unwitheld Bewilderment: *You look just like him when he Was your age*... How alien now, the idea: Someone Knew that old man as a child, Remembering well enough To compare us. And I still find myself there at times. Lost|but not quite|yet Worried that I am. Waiting in the potatoe field. Smaller than then, now that I've grown; Knowing that nobody's coming.
sgholter
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sgholter
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
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