Neighbors who walk our street
notice the ramp constructed
with the bend toward the driveway
is gone after only three days.  

New planks of pine
******* in place as a welcome
never greet the wheels
expected to transport him to familiarity,
to warmth, to man's best friend
and to the peace of returning home.

Cars gathered around the ramp-less walkway
like bees at blossoms drinking in bits of nectar.  
His children want a taste of him that lasts.

In anguish they rend their mental cloth
while missing a clasp from his creased palm.
Each offspring mulls over unfinished issues
with his lingering spirit.

In life his skilled hands crafted love
into objects made from sawlogs.
In death he leaves imprints of endearment
in the hearts of those left behind.