Grandfather

“He was a gruff old goat,” grandmother said,

“Until he set his eyes upon you.

The sun rose that day and he said :

“The whole world has became new.”

Scarred by war and unyielding land

he was stooped and bent and bitter.

Until the day his firstborn announced,

it was her time to deliver.

He was hunched in his chair, cap askew

when they brought him the thing that was me,

his face turned away, then he glanced a look

and ten thousand chains fell free.

He reached out his arms and his eyes welled up

grandmother had never seen such a thing,

he closed his eyes and pulled me to his face

and he nuzzled me close and he sang...

a song of old, grandmother translated:

“The beautiful grace of a little bird.”

I met him that moment; I cannot recall it

but I loved him long afterward.

He bent to one knee to show me the sprouts

from the ground that would become food.

He rediscovered astronomy to teach me the stars

and he taught me to tie my shoes.

The only grandfather I ever knew

had bright and smiling Portuguese eyes

the man who spoke of the Azorean seas,

and how his mothers love could never die.

I will forever recall his big hand clutching mine

as we walked through the forests and fields,

how his face became steely and painfully lined

when he told me that he had stopped feeling...

until the day I came into his world,

all pink and perfect and needing to be heard,

above the war torn fields of life

with the beautiful grace of a little bird.