Because he was Pop-pop and farmed each day He had sunshine darkened skin that soon blotted. Fingers bruised, cracked, and hair sliver grey, Cancer sored hands soon quickly rotted.
Sometimes he would touch me with those hands, Although he wasnβt always loving. A boy of seven years never understands And so when he left, I felt nothing.
Delaware has a part, of cornfield mazes, dirt paths, muddy ponds and teary willow trees. Whenever I go back I notice changes But still sense whatβs left of Pop-popβs disease.
Along harsh harvest palms and hammered nails, Weaved a lifeβs loving work, now damaged details.